Children of Man
by Tajjas
Summary: Castiel was an angel. He was…unaccustomed…to dealing with mortal limitations. Unfortunately, the demons who bound him for sacrifice didn't particularly care. And the Winchester boys weren't helping a great deal either. Set between episodes 4.08 and 4.09.
1. They've GOT an angel

**They've GOT an angel**

_Author's notes:_

_The exorcism ritual is stolen from the tape recording Sam made in _Jus in Bello_, as best I and a friend who had two years of high school Latin once upon a time could manage, anyway. Probably not particularly accurate, but close enough for what I needed._

_For anyone who's worried about River of Dreams—it has _not_ been abandoned. However, both my beta and sometimes-beta have informed me that Severus turned into a complete sap somewhere in ch. 44, and immediately after I started rewriting I got stuck. And I've stayed stuck. I'm still working on it, but so far (despite a complete outline), I haven't been able to get back into the flow and make the characters sound right. Don't worry, though, it will be finished eventually._

* * * * *

It was going to be him that broke this seal, Castiel knew, the heavy weight of failure resting squarely upon his shoulders. Knowledge of his failure felt far worse than the pain of the lacerations and burns this body had taken. His father had set him this task, and he had fallen short. Miserably short.

Both Sameron and Lamediel had been destroyed by the demon horde before they'd even realized that the fight was upon them, and now, his powers bound by Marked manacles, Castiel was as helpless _as_ a mortal in the face of those same demons. The mortal shell he was trapped in was chained above the altar, the doorway drawn upon the floor in front of it, and all it would take was the spilling of the shell's lifeblood to—

There was an explosion, and a demon in the guise of a young boy hit the ground with a howl of outrage.

"Dean, there's the window!"

Castiel recognized the voice almost immediately. The demon-blooded younger brother of Dean Winchester. But what either of them was doing _here_, almost a thousand miles from where he had last seen them….

There were snarls as the demons tried to stop Dean, but he battered his way through them towards the high window on the opposite wall with his fists and slashes from something that emitted orange light when it struck. Occasionally black smoke would pour forth from the mouth of one of the possessed, so it was a powerful weapon, whatever it was.

Sam was hidden from his sight in a mass of other demons by the entrance that they had created, but there were no telltale puffs of smoke—or the overwhelming feeling of _evil_—to indicate that he was using the hellsent powers he possessed. There was, however, the occasional cry of pain that indicated that he was holding his own.

Castiel had been temporarily forgotten in the melee, and he struggled to free himself. His feet could just barely reach the alter, giving him some leverage, and the wall and altar were shadowed and difficult to see from any distance. If he could just loosen the manacles even a little, he might be able to bring his powers to bear before the demons could stop him.

"Do it, Sam!" Dean shouted, leaping down from the window

Something orange and flaming shot upwards from the group surrounding Sam, and then water began spraying from miniature faucets overhead, drawing screams from the demons when the water made contact. How they had gotten holy water up there…

"_Exorciamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii. Omnis legio, omnis congregario, et secta diabolica!_" Sam shouted.

The demons fell back, turning towards whichever exit was closest, but the Winchesters must have done something to the doorway before they had blasted their way in, and whatever Dean had put at the window was keeping them from escaping in that direction as well. Some covered their ears, trying to block the younger Winchester's voice, but it was a futile attempt.

"_Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare!_"

One of the demons made a wild gesture that sent Sam into the wall, and his voice faltered.

"_Vade…_," Dean began. "_Vade, satana_…_vade, satana_…damn it!"

"_Vade, satana, inventor et magister omnis fallaciæ, hostis humanæ salutis!_" Castiel called, before the demons had time to regroup. His voice wasn't as strong or as steady as the mortal's had been, but at least he could offer the boys some time. Even if it did chance drawing the demons' attention back to him.

"_Castiel?_" Dean left his post by the window, slashing his way through a group of demons to reach him. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Hell had a great deal to do with it, as it happened, but Castiel didn't bother to point that out.

"_Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei,_" Sam took over again. "_Contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili Nomini quem inferi tremunt. Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine!_"

"Of all the…." Dean climbed up on the altar in front of Castiel and tugged at the chains, but they were set firm in the wall.

"Does he know the full ritual?" Castiel asked.

"Who, Sam? Of course he does—he knows like a dozen exorcism rituals. He's a geek; memorizing random shit is what he _does_."

"_Exorciamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii. Omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica!_" Sam continued, confirming Dean's words.

Dean pulled a piece of thick wire out of his pocket and caught Castiel's wrist. "Where's the lock?" He didn't bother to wait for an answer, twisting the wrist around and then dropping it and slapping his hand against the wall. "There's no lock! _How_ is there no lock?"

"Because the bindings are fused in place."

"Great."

"_Ergo, draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica, adjuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque æternæ perditionìs venenum propinare! Vade satanus, ut Ecclesiam tuam secura facias libertate servire. Te rogamus, audi nos_!"

The demons' screams increased tenfold, and then there was a rush of black smoke as they exited their victims.

"Sam, get a crowbar!" Dean shouted in the silence that followed.

"What? _Why?_ Let's just burn this…portal," Sam waved a hand at the doorway drawn upon the floor, "and get out of here before they have time to regroup! Anything that requires the ritual sacrifice of an angel—wherever they were planning to get one—is—"

"They've _got_ an angel," Dean interrupted. "Castiel! Now get the damn crow—"

"Dean, look out!"

Sam's shout came too late as one of the exorcised victims—at least Castiel had assumed that he had been exorcised with the rest—came to his feet. His eyes were pale, nearly white, and when he snapped his arm sideways, Dean flew off the altar and slammed into the opposite wall, the back of his skull striking first. His body went limp on impact, sliding to the floor.

"_Dean!_"


	2. Little monster

**Little monster**

_Disclaimer—_Supernatural_ isn't mine. If that comes as a surprise to anyone, I have some lovely swampland in Florida that you should take a look at. _

* * * * *

Sam's shout was still ringing in the air when the demon pulled an elaborately decorated knife out of its robes and turned towards Castiel. "There will be a sacrifice, and my master will rise!"

"Like hell!" Sam snarled, turning his back on his brother's limp form. A flare of fire from the object in his hands knocked the demon sideways a few steps, but if holy water and an exorcism hadn't been enough to drive it out, it was far too powerful for anything physical to affect.

The demon shook itself and gave Sam a disgusted look. "I'm going to kill the angel first, but don't worry, you and the rest of these meatsuits will have your turn." It started to continue its advance towards the altar but unexpectedly grunted and faltered.

Even with his senses damped to nearly nothing by the bindings, Castiel could feel the sudden taint of evil on the human boy as he stood with his arm outstretched. Sam's power had been enough to stop the demon, though. Partially, anyway; the thing turned towards him and away from Castiel.

"Well, well, well." The demon took on a mocking tone. "One of Azazel's little monsters. The last survivor, if I'm not mistaken." Its lips curled in disgust. "Unnatural. A mockery. None of you should have been allowed to live."

Sam's arm wavered slightly. "You know what I am?"

"Of course. You were a big part of his plan. Of course, he's gone now, but_ you_ aren't. Unfortunately."

"What _is_ this plan?" Sam demanded. "Why did he do this to me? Why did he do this to _any_ of us?"

Something that Castiel wanted desperately to know as well, but the demon just chuckled. "Oh, you'll see. Soon enough." It shifted its grip on the knife and started to turn. "But that's not my concern at the moment. You shouldn't fight me, little monster, you won't win."

Sam's eyes flicked towards Castiel for a brief second, and then his jaw clenched and his arm steadied again. "Watch me."

There was no fierce battle, no dramatic gestures aside from the Winchester boy's outstretched hand, just the locking of eyes between the two figures and the feeling of _evil_ in the air. At first it seemed fairly evenly matched—neither so much as twitched a muscle—but then blood began to pour from the Winchester boy's nose as his eyes went dark, and the demon's body jerked. And then it coughed and emitted a puff of black smoke. Followed by another, and another. Sam Winchester was obviously in pain, as well, though; when the body the demon had inhabited finally sank to the floor, Sam doubled over almost immediately, hands on his knees and his head hanging down.

For a long moment, Castiel thought Sam was going to collapse beside the man that the demon had inhabited, but somehow he managed to force himself upright and stagger towards his brother.

"Dean?"

Castiel couldn't deny that he felt relief himself when Sam knelt beside Dean, touching his brother's neck, and obvious relief crossed _his_ face.

After a few minutes of light prodding to Dean's neck and back, Sam heaved himself upright again. He had Dean balanced rather precariously over his shoulder, and it wasn't precisely a graceful procession as they made their way towards the door. They did make it out, though, which was more than Castiel was managing.

The victims that had been possessed—those that had survived the possession, anyway—were starting to rise as well, making their way out of the room in a confused mass. None of them spared Castiel so much as a glance as he resumed his struggles.

Despite his best efforts, he was no more successful now than he had been before. The chains wouldn't release, he could feel no loosening in the manacles, and it seemed that every twitch of his muscles was rendering him weaker and weaker.

"Here, let me try."

Castiel jerked back as best he could as Sam Winchester scrambled onto the altar in front of him, a metal bar in one hand and an odd-looking knife in the other. The immediate taint of evil had faded, but his face and the front of his shirt were still covered in blood and Castiel couldn't forget what he had just seen. Even the demon had identified the boy as unnatural.

Sam shook his head before Castiel could say anything. "Look, I get you don't like me much, all right? And you probably like me even less now than you did a few minutes ago. But Dean's unconscious and they're…," he waved a hand as the last of the survivors finally made it out the door. "Well, they're not going to be a whole lot of use to _anyone_ for awhile. So unless you've got a way to get yourself down that for you just haven't chosen to use, your options are letting me help or hanging out here." He frowned. "Literally. And there will be demons coming back, probably sooner that later—at least two of the ones acting as guards outside managed to escape." He turned and looked down at the doorway drawn upon the floor. "No offense, but I really don't think your odds are good if you stay here."

A rather unassailable point. Castiel gave as much of a nod as he could manage with one of the chains holding his neck to the wall. "Agreed." Although he didn't particularly like it.

"Thank you." Sam tucked the knife into his belt and jammed the bar into a link in the chain holding Castiel's right wrist to the wall. Gritting his teeth, he pulled it downwards, and the chain gave with a groan.

Sam reached for the manacle itself, and Castiel barely refrained from pulling his hand away. "I don't believe you will be able to remove it with that bar."

"I doubt it. This looks almost fused to your skin. "Is this why you can't get down yourself?"

"Yes. The manacles prevent me from accessing my powers…at the moment I am limited to purely mortal means." The demon presiding over the sacrifice had attached them, imbuing them with the power and Marks to keep him bound, and he wasn't entirely certain that there existed a mortal object that could release him from them. He was just fortunate that the demon had put no such protections on the chains.

Sam stared at him for a moment and then leaned closer to examine the band before releasing Castiel's arm with a shake of his head. "If it's all right with you, I'd like to worry about getting out of here first, and then we can deal with those later."

Castiel nodded.

Sam moved on to the next ring in the wall, the one attached to the manacle around his neck. "Hold…really still."

As though Castiel had any other choice. The bar slipped once, scratching his neck, but he dismissed Sam's immediate apology with a minute shake of his head. It was hardly his most pressing concern.

He sagged forward abruptly, forehead landing on Sam's shoulder, as the ring holding his neck to the wall released suddenly and he discovered that the only things still keeping him upright were the chain on his left wrist and the minuscule strength left in his legs. The fight earlier, as well as his struggles to free himself, had left him weak and drained, and while normally he could draw upon his powers to replenish himself, that wasn't an option at the moment.

"Easy," Sam said, pushing him back against the wall. "Just one more to go."

That 'one more' took more time than the first two, mostly because Sam had to support him as well as break the chain, but eventually the metal gave and Sam climbed back down off the altar dragging Castiel with him.

It took far more effort than Castiel cared to admit to keep his legs under him, and if Sam hadn't been more than half carrying him, he would never have made it out of the building.

He saw Dean lying, still unconscious, in the back seat of the car as Sam helped him into the front seat.

"Here." Sam gave Castiel the knife that he'd tucked in his belt earlier and set the bar down by his feet before grabbing a bag out of the back seat.

Castiel examined the blade for a moment. "What is this?" What good would a knife do him now?

"It kills demons. Just in case. I'll be right back."

"Where—?" Sam had already turned back for the building before he managed even that single word. Castiel had no idea what it was that he planned to do, but only a few minutes passed before Sam returned, climbing into the driver's seat and tossing the bag onto the floor of the back seat. He took the car out of the lot with a squeal of tires, and in the reverse-facing mirror, Castiel could see a plume of fire rising from the warehouse.

"You burned the doorway?"

"Yeah, and stole their knife." He produced the blade from his jacket and stuck it in a compartment in front of Castiel. "Just to be safe. If they got you, they might be able to get their hands on one of your friends too."

A valid point. He cocked his head. "Would you have left me there? If I had refused your assistance?"


	3. The number of the bus

**The number of the bus**

_Disclaimer—_Supernatural_ still isn't mine. Anyone surprised?_

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed; I appreciate hearing what people like/dislike about the story._

* * * * *

"No." It was difficult to tell in the fading light, but Castiel thought that Sam flushed slightly. "But I don't even want to _know _how much trouble I would have been in for sucker punching an angel."

"Sucker punching…?" He recognized the words individually, of course, but together they made very little sense. And this time he was _certain_ that that Sam flushed.

"It, uh, it's an unfair fighting tactic. Hitting somebody when they aren't expecting it, usually in the face." He shrugged slightly. "Not a nice tactic, but it works pretty well for knocking people unconscious."

"Ah." At full strength, such a thing would never work against him—and he would not be merciful to any mortal stupid enough to try—but trapped as he was in this shell, it would probably be quite effective.

"You said that those manacles were binding your powers, ri—" Sam winced and raised and hand to his forehead. "Right?"

"Yes." He was all but mortal at the moment, and it was more distracting than he'd ever have expected. He kept trying to use senses and abilities that just weren't _there_. And for some reason these eyes kept trying to close. "Are you injured?"

"Bumps and bruises, mostly."

Dean groaned in the back seat, and Sam appeared to forget about Castiel entirely, reaching back and patting his brother's chest. "Just stay still, Dean. You've got a pretty good concussion."

Dean groaned again. "Dude, you get the number of that bus?"

"What?"

"The one that clobbered me."

"It was a demon that made it through our exorcism. He's gone n—don't sit up!" Sam glanced back in alarm. "You'll get sick. Just stay down, all right? Try and keep your head still."

"Castiel?" Dean's voice was sharper now, more alert. "Was he really ther—?"

"Yeah, he was there. Now he's…here." Sam took his eyes back off the road for a moment for glance in Castiel's direction before reaching back to give his brother another pat. "Look, don't worry about it, all right? Just try to relax. We'll all be fine."

Privately Castiel wasn't entirely certain about that, nor was he particularly enjoying being so dependant on this demon-touched mortal. But there appeared to be very little choice, and as he was no longer in immediate danger of being sacrificed, he would tolerate the situation.

Sam kept glancing back at Dean as they continued down the road and then turned onto a larger highway, his expression growing steadily more worried as Dean made no more attempts to speak. And, if Castiel wasn't mistaken, the younger Winchester's expression was growing increasingly pained as well.

The silence in the car drew out until the sky had gone completely dark. "Where are we going?" Castiel finally asked.

"As far as I can make it. I'd like to get to a decent sized city, just in case Dean ends up needing to go to the hospital. Smaller towns, smaller hospitals, they tend to ask a lot more questions." He glanced over, lowering the hand that was rubbing his forehead. "I—I'm sorry, I should have asked already. How severely are you injured? I've been assuming that you don't _want_ a hospital, but if you do we can stop…."

He turned the wheel, moving the car into a different lane as if in preparation to pull off the highway, and Castiel shook his head quickly. Hospitals were mortal houses of healing; there would be nothing there for him. "I do not need a hospital. Why might he? Are you not familiar with injuries?"

"With concussions, sure. I mean, if that's all this is, we'll go ahead and hole up in a motel room for a couple days and keep the lights off until he feels better." He glanced back at Dean. "But he hit that wall _hard_. I'd like to have a hospital close, just in case." His eyes returned to the road. "You still haven't answered my question about how badly you're hurt, though."

"Not severely." The demons hadn't wanted to chance this mortal shell expiring before they finished the sacrifice, after all, especially since both of his brothers who'd been with him were already dead. They hadn't been above a few slashes and blows, of course, but it was nothing that he couldn't deal with privately. "However, my strength is minimal, especially with these manacles on."

Sam frowned for a moment. "Can't you just call one of your friends to get them off? Uriel or someone?"

Uriel was his brother, not his friend, but that was irrelevant. "Not with my voice bound." He indicated the manacle around his neck. Being unable to contact Father was…disconcerting, even more so than being limited to the mere five senses of this wingless body.

"Then I guess we'll have to figure out a way get them off you. I—" Whatever he intended to say was cut off as he sucked in his breath and reached up to squeeze his forehead.

"What's wrong?"

"It's nothing important. A migraine." He waved a hand. "I'm just afraid you might be stuck with us for a couple days until we can start sorting this out. Dean's not going to be able to do much with that concussion, and I'll probably be out of action for a day or two as well."

"Because of this migraine?"

"Yeah. It's sort of a side effect of that freaky psychic demon-killing thing of mine. It happened after the mess with Samhain too…I think it's because they were stronger than the average demon." He shook his head, dismissing the subject. "Never mind. I'll handle it. Do you think that you can walk without help?"

A rather abrupt change of subject, but Castiel was in no mood to pursue the darkness within the boy at this moment either. "I believe so, but it will…not be fast. Nor far." Which he hated admitting, but it would do no good to conceal a weakness that would be revealed as soon as he attempted to stand. "Why?"

"When we get a room, me hauling him in is probably going to get enough stares," Sam said, indicating Dean. "And I'd rather not attract any more attention than necessary, especially since we're going to be there a few days. I mean, I don't _think_ any demons will be able to track us this far, but there's no sense being stupid about it."

Castiel nodded in agreement and then frowned as his eyelids began to droop again. This was getting ridiculous—why weren't they staying open? He knew mortals had to sleep, and with these manacles in place he would have to as well, but he did not _wish_ to do so right now.

"Anyway, I figure that I can get a room and drop you two off and then go pick us up enough food to tide us over for a couple days," Sam continued. "I'll leave you Ruby's knife and the gu—_ahh_." He dug the fingernails of one hand into the skin of his forehead, and the car swerved slightly. "Shit. I think this is as far as we're going to get. Unless you can drive?"

"No."

"All right." He pulled the car off the highway and into the lot of a fairly large building lit by a garishly bright sign. "Wait here. You've do have the knife, right?"

"Yes. Clean your face." Even he knew that wandering around blood-covered was bound to attract unwanted attention.

"Oh, yeah. Thanks." He scrubbed his face off on a bit of cloth and then zipped his jacket to hide the blood on his shirt before heading inside.

Sam returned in a matter of minutes, and Castiel discovered that he had overestimated his own strength somewhat. Sam's shoulder was once again required to reach their room—a shoulder fortunately available despite the bags that Sam carried—but at least he did make it. Sam left after he'd taken a seat on the bed nearest the door and returned with Dean and a third bag.

Dean was walking more-or-less on his own, which came as something of a relief to Castiel, although he didn't even appear to notice Castiel and fell back asleep as soon as he was lowered onto the far bed.

Sam gave his forehead another rub and then set the last bag on the floor beside Dean's bed. And then, unexpectedly, followed it down.

"Sam?" Castiel asked when he made no move to get up. Getting no response, he stood cautiously, using the wall as support as he made his way over to the crumpled body. When he caught Sam's shoulder and rolled him onto his back, he found the boy's eyes shut and blood once again flowing from his nose. "Sam?"


	4. Please press 1

_Okay, so I've held off posting this until after the _I Know What You Did/Hell's Angels_ combination to see whether I wanted to try and keep the story current with the season or fit it in between episodes. Going with the latter, partially since I'm not sure how Dean and Sam are going to react to Castiel after this last mess and don't feel like waiting any longer to find out, and partially because Castiel didn't even twitch when Sam called him Cas and since I don't think even Dean has done that to his face yet in an episode it's worth a little back-story. So, as of now, this story takes place sometime between _Wishful Thinking_ and _I Know What You Did Last Summer_._

_Sadly enough, _Supernatural_ still isn't mine._

* * * * *

Castiel gritted his teeth, set his feet as firmly as he could—which, unfortunately, was not particularly firmly, but at least he didn't think he was in immediate danger of toppling over—and heaved. And Sam didn't even budge. It didn't come as any real surprise, considering that he hadn't managed anything more on his last two attempts. Castiel's knees began to buckle and he gave up and released his grip on the boy's shoulders, sinking to the floor beside him. Between the current weakness of his mortal shell and the fact that, whatever else he might be, Sam Winchester was no lightweight, there was no way that Castiel was ever going to be able to lift him onto the bed

It had already taken a ridiculous amount of effort just to get the boy into a sitting position with his back against the bed Dean was lying on…his nosebleed hadn't lasted long once he was upright, fortunately, because it was neither the kind of wound you could put direct pressure on nor the type that could be cauterized, which had put it outside Castiel's meager knowledge of mortal healing techniques. Unfortunately the same thing held true of unconsciousness, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do now. If he had his powers, the entire thing would be moot, but….

Dean hadn't stirred, despite the struggle occurring not four feet away from him, so obviously no assistance would be forthcoming from that quarter. And while Castiel knew for a fact that the two of them _had_ mortal friends—for instance, the man who'd been with Dean when Dean had summoned him—he hadn't the first idea how to contact one of them.

Sam had mentioned a hospital earlier, and Castiel was starting to wish that that had been their destination. Not that _he_ needed one, of course, but he didn't know where the line lay between the two of them being able to recover on their own and requiring professional assistance. Nor, again, how one would go about _getting_ such assistance. He was rapidly discovering that two thousand years of observation was not quite the same thing as practical experience.

He reached behind him and pulled a pillow and blanket off the empty bed. As far as making Sam comfortable it was a fairly pitiful attempt, and the state of the floor had been what had prompted him to try and get the boy onto the bed in the first place, but it was the best he could manage. Toppling Sam back into a lying position on his side was far easier than getting him upright had been, at least.

A phone, Castiel decided as he leaned back against the bed behind him, studying the two mortals. He could use one of those to get help. They were a relatively recent invention, barely more than a century old, but they were one of the few means mortals had to communicate across distances. He knew for a fact that both Sam and Dean had phones, although where they kept them he wasn't sure, but he was almost certain that he had seen one in the hotel room when they had come in as well.

A quick look around placed it on the table between the two beds, and he pushed himself back up on his knees to examine it. You had to press certain buttons to make a connection, he knew that much, but what precisely he was supposed to press…. "Ah. 'Press 1 for assistance.'" That was simple enough. He lifted the handset and pressed the button.

"Hello, and thank you for calling the Whispering Pines Motel," an oddly monotone woman's voice said from somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth.

He turned the handset around. "Hello. I req—"

"We have recently automated our phone system to better meet our guests' needs. If you would like to hear your options in English, please press 1." There was a pause, and then a second voice, male this time, with the same monotone quality offered, "_Para oír sus opciones en español, por favor prensa 2._"

Castiel frowned at the handset. "I require assistance." Why would he care what language it was provided in? His statement got no response, though, and after a moment he again pressed the button labeled 1.

"The Whispering Pines Motel thanks you for your business," the monotone woman said. "If you would like to make a reservation for the future, please press 1. If you would like room service, please press 2. If you need housekeeping services, including extra towels or bedding, please press 3. For information about checkout times or to extend your stay, please press 4. To schedule a wakeup call, please press 5. To hear your options again, please press 6."

"I require assistance," Castiel repeated, glaring at the handset. Hardly a difficult requst.

The voice remained silent for several seconds, and then, "Please select one of the options from the menu provided. To hear your options again, please press 6."

He considered for a moment and then pressed '2'. Room service. After all, he was certainly in no shape to go elsewhere to find help.

"I'm sorry, but this location does not provide room service." To Castiel's ear, the woman didn't sound particularly sorry at all. "Please look in the welcome booklet in your hotel room for a wide selection of local restaurants that deliver to this location. Thank you for your business."

There was a click followed by a droning noise, and he put the handset down with a frown. How had that in any way been assistance? And why would be want to call a restaurant? Well, Sam had said something about picking up food, but it didn't strike him as his most immediate need at the moment.

A shrill ringing from the vicinity of Sam's jacket startled him, and he crawled over and unzipped it cautiously. There was a lot of blood on the front of his shirt—more than Castiel had realized previously—and he didn't even twitch as Castiel searched for whatever was making that noise.

"S'my, answer the _phone_," Dean moaned.

Castiel glanced up, surprised, but when Sam's phone rang again, accompanied by a second moan from the man on the bed, he went back to searching Sam's jacket. He finally found it—a small rectangular object tiny enough to fit in his hand—in one of the pockets. "Hello?"

It gave another shrill ring.

It had a small screen, displaying the name 'Ellen' at the bottom with a picture of a blonde woman above it, and perhaps three dozen buttons, some with numbers and letters like the room phone, some with letters and various symbols, and others with tiny pictographs. If he was supposed to press one of them, he had no idea which.

Another ring.

"_Sammy._"

"Castiel," Castiel corrected after a moment, pushing himself back onto his knees to offer the phone to Dean. "Here. I believe the name is Ellen."

"El—?" Dean rolled onto his side slowly. "Castiel? What're you doing here?" He blinked hard. "And why do you have Sam's phone?" He blinked again. "God, my head hurts."

Castiel decided to ignore the last comment and continued to hold out the phone, relieved when Dean took it with no further argument.

Dean touched one of the keys and then brought it to his ear. "Hello?"

"_Dean?_"

Even from this distance Castiel could hear the woman's voice clearly, and Dean dropped the phone and grabbed for the wastebasket under the bedside table, burying his face in it.

"_Dean? Dean!_" the woman shouted.

Castiel reached down to retrieve the phone from the floor and brought it to his ear. "Dean is…not well."

"What do you mean, not well? Who're you? What happened to Dean? Where's Sam?" Her voice—which hadn't been quiet to begin with—got steadily louder as the questions progressed.

"Dude, that _sucked_," Dean muttered, pulling his head back out of the basket and ignoring the vile smell that now rose from it. He held out his free hand, taking the phone back from Castiel. Although he didn't put it back to his ear, merely got the other end in range of his mouth. "Look, Ellen, we'll call you back, all right? Our last hunt went…seriously sideways." Whatever he touched next must have deactivated the phone, because the screen was blank when he dropped it back onto the bed, and he looked over at Castiel with a frown. "Where _is_ Sam, anyway?"


	5. Those of us with rattled skulls

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed…I had a great deal of fun writing Castiel versus the automated phone system and I'm glad people liked reading it._

_According to my Magic 8 ball, it is 'highly unlikely' that Supernatural is mine. Oh well._

* * * * *

"On the floor."

"On the _floor_?" Dean sat up slowly and studied his brother's still form for a moment before glaring at Castiel. "What, you can drag me up out of Hell, but you can't lift him three feet onto a mattress?" He didn't wait for an answer, frowning down at Sam. "And why did he decide to sleep on the floor anyway?"

"He is unconscious."

"Uncon—" Dean stood quickly and then sank back onto the bed with a groan, gripping his forehead so hard that his knuckles were nearly white. "Okay, not going to do that again."

Castiel remained silent as Dean stood again—slowly this time—and moved to kneel beside Sam.

"Sam? Sammy?" Dean slapped Sam's face lightly. "Come on, it's way too late for beauty sleep to do you any good."

Sam didn't even stir.

To Castiel, it seemed that Dean mimicked most of the motions that Sam had gone through examining Dean when Dean had been knocked unconscious. "No concussion, no trauma outside the usual," Dean muttered after a few moments. "How long has it been since you've slept, little brother?" He slid one arm under Sam's shoulders and the other under his knees and heaved.

He managed to get Sam onto the mattress, but all color drained from his face in doing so, and as soon as Sam was in place he dove for the wastebasket again. After he finished losing what little remained in his stomach, he pushed himself up from his knees, picked up the basket, and headed for a door in the back of the room. The sound of running water followed, and then Dean returned with a damp face, a glass of water, and what appeared to be a now-clean basket.

"All right, I'm just going to sit down and be really _still_," Dean said, setting the basket on the floor and picking up the last bag that Sam had brought in. He sank down at the head of the bed just in front of Sam, and a moment of rummaging in the bag produced a small bottle containing white pills. He swallowed two and then put the bottle back in the bag and the glass of water on the table beside the phone. Then he glared at Castiel. "What are you doing here, anyway? I mean, the whole watching us sleep thing is kind of creepy."

Castiel opened his mouth to reply but found himself at a loss for words. Sam had seemed to take it for granted that he would go with the two of them, that they would attempt to help him get these manacles off. And if either Winchester was going to balk at such a plan of action, Castiel would have expected it to be the one with demon blood. If _Dean_ actively objected to his presence, though, he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do. He'd just had his face rubbed quite firmly in the fact that he didn't truly know how to exist as a mortal, and finding assistance for two unconscious men would be child's play compared to the task of removing these manacles. "I…."

"And why are you sitting on the floor, anyway? I mean, you, Sam…did something really nasty happen on these beds that no one wants to tell me about?"

"I don't believe that I'm capable of standing at the moment," Castiel admitted.

Dean stared. "Okay, that's new. What happened?"

"You don't remember? Anything?"

He frowned. "The last thing I remember is a new case Sam and I were working. Bobby called a couple days back about something seriously nasty going down in middle-of-nowhere Arizona, what looked like another seal about to be broken. Sam linked the signs to a ritual involving the sacrifice of an angel." He transferred his frown to the floor at his feet. "Took some time, but we managed to track things back to this old warehouse complex that's probably been abandoned for fifty years. There were a lot of demons around—couple dozen, at least—so we figured we'd better bring on the holy water and try for a mass exorcism rather than a straight-up assault. And then things get kind of fuzzy." His frown deepened and he looked back at Castiel. "You were there, weren't you? In the warehouse?"

"I was."

"Well, that's about all I remember, but considering the headache I've got and the knot on the back of my skull, I figure the fact that I know my own _name_ is pretty impressive."

"Sam said you had a concussion."

"Yeah. So how about a quick recap for those of us with rattled skulls? Oh, uh…here." He stood again, offering his hands.

"What?"

"Unless you _want_ to keep sitting on that floor?"

Some of Castiel's uncertainty must have shown on his face, because Dean glared.

"Look, if I can haul his heavy ass up onto the bed," he waved a hand at Sam, "I can damn well handle that holy tax accountant suit you're borrowing."

Castiel refrained from mentioning what had happened after Dean had lifted Sam and accepted the assistance. The bed did make a much more comfortable seat than the floor had, and at least this time Dean didn't get sick.

"So, what, you were in the warehouse trying to stop them from breaking the seal too?" Dean asked. "We've really got to start planning things a little better."

"Not precisely. As your brother surmised, this seal did involve the sacrifice of an angel. I was one sent to stop it. It was to be a preemptive strike—taking them out before they had time to organize, thus preventing them from setting a trap for one of us—but things did not go as planned."

"Somehow they never do," Dean muttered.

"There demons had organized more quickly than expected, and there were more of them. I was captured. They were preparing to sacrifice me when you and your brother arrived."

"You're telling me you went up against all those demons by _yourself_? I mean, no offense, but hasn't God ever heard of backup?"

"Two of my brothers were sent as well. Neither survived."

Dean's eyes widened and he sucked in air sharply, glancing back at Sam for a few seconds. "I—I'm sorry, Cas."

"It was…necessary."

Dean looked as though he wanted to argue for a moment, but he didn't say anything. Just as well as Castiel was not in the mood to pursue that subject that the moment.

"And my name is Castiel."

"Yeah, right. So…why are you still with us? I mean, shouldn't you be up in heaven resting, or wherever it is banged-up angels go?"

Castiel indicated the manacles on his wrist and neck. "The demons put these on as part of the sacrifice, to bind me in this form. At the moment I am limited to the abilities of a mortal." If Dean did have a problem with him staying with them, better to know now. Not that it would give him any more of an idea of where to go or what to do.

"Mortal, as in one of us? No wings, no window-shattering voice…?"

"Nothing."

"Damn. Let's see." He held out a hand, and after a moment Castiel extended his arm and allowed Dean to examine the Marked band. "No lock to pick, just these funny symbols. How did they get these on you, anyway?"

"The demon presiding over the sacrifice fused them on."

"Great. I don't suppose a pair of bolt cutters will do us any good?"

"Unlikely." He had only a vague notion of what 'bolt cutters' were, but he doubted any mortal tool would work on the manacles.

Dean sighed and released Castiel's arm, reaching up to rub his forehead. "Well, we'll figure something out. How did I end up with a concussion, anyway? I mean, I'm assuming we won since we're alive and you're not, you know, sacrificed, but…."

Castiel couldn't deny a feeling of relief as Dean seemed to assume that he would be with them until the manacles were off and accept it as easily as Sam had.

"Castiel?" Dean asked, and he returned his attention to the present. "What happened in the warehouse?"

"Your exorcism worked on almost all of the demons there, but the leader was not affected. Unfortunately none of us realized that in time. You were attempting to get me down when he threw you into a wall."

"Ouch. Yeah, that would do it. Did Sam get him?"

"Yes." However much Castiel might have disapproved of his method.

Dean studied Castiel for a moment and then sighed and turned back to look at his brother. "He did his freaky psychic thing again, didn't he?"

"Yes. He said it caused a migraine."

"Explains why he's unconscious, at least…the same thing happened after Samhain. Well, he didn't pass out on the floor that time, but he didn't have an unconscious brother or an out-of-commission angel to haul around either." He slapped one palm down against the bedspread. "Damn."


	6. Angels aren't vegetarians, right?

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It's good to know what people like/dislike, and I can work with that when editing later chapters._

_Still not mine. So sad. _

* * * * *

Now Castiel _was_ watching the two boys sleep. It wasn't intentional—he'd fully intended to follow Dean's suggestion and get some sleep as well—but this body was infuriatingly stubborn. When he'd wanted to keep his eyes open, they'd kept trying to close; now that he wanted them to stay closed, it seemed they kept twitching.

He was starting to feel every slash and bruise the demons had left on this shell as well. Individually none of them were particularly awful, but cumulatively…Dean had offered him medication, both the small pills he had taken and a smaller bottle of what he called aspirin, but Castiel had declined, unsure of what the effects would be. He was beginning to think that he should have considered the matter more.

He could, of course, get the pills himself—Dean had already fallen back asleep beside Sam with a few muttered comments about kicking and 'staying on his own side', whatever that meant—but trial and error didn't seem to be the best way to go about selecting medication. Especially given his earlier experiences with the phone.

Castiel rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. If he had been asked two days ago whether or not he could survive on his own in the mortal world, he would have dismissed the question as ridiculous. He was an angel of the Lord. He had spent the last two thousand _years_ observing mortals. How difficult could it possibly be?

He cringed slightly at his own arrogance. It was quite difficult, as it turned out, and he was not handling things so well. And despite the presence of the Winchester boys, the fact that he couldn't even _speak_ to his father or any of his siblings left him feeling more isolated than he had ever felt before.

He lifted one wrist and examined the manacle. Just looking at the script made him feel…dirty. And there was no guarantee that it would ever come off, no matter what Sam and Dean seemed to think. Powerful demons didn't like having their plans thwarted, and they generally took pains to prevent such things from happening.

* * * * *

"Castiel? Hey."

Castiel felt a broad hand shaking his shoulder lightly, and opened his eyes to discover a tall man looming over him. For a moment he felt strangely disoriented—as though part of him was missing—and then he remembered. Part of him _was_ missing. A fairly major part, as it happened.

"Cas?"

He blinked slowly, trying to orient himself. "Sam Winchester." He blinked again. "My name is Castiel."

"Uh, yeah. Sorry, it's…." He straightened and shook his head. "Never mind. Look, you can go back to sleep in just a minute, but I'm going to go out and get us some food so is there anything in particular you want? I guess it's kind of late for breakfast, but…."

Castiel stared.

"You do eat, right?" A frown crossed Sam's face. "Well, I mean, I guess you probably don't _normally_, but I think you're kind of going to have to now until we get those manacles off, so…."

"I am capable of eating," Castiel confirmed, pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. "However, it has never been a necessity, even when using a mortal vessel. I have no preferences."

"Well, is there anything you _don't_ want? Like if your, uh, vessel, has any allergies, or anything like that?"

"I am unaware of any allergies." There was no reason for him to be, after all. So much he didn't know, even about the man who's body he was using.

"Would you just get the guy some waffles or something?" Dean muttered, voice muted by the pile of blankets he was buried under. "And bring me pie."

Sam turned. "Dude, you just puked after a glass of _water_; I am not—"

"_Pie,_" Dean repeated, lifting the blankets enough to glare at his brother.

Rolling his eyes, Sam turned back around. "All right, I'll just pick something. Sorry I woke you."

"You are…well?" Castiel had to ask as Sam started to turn for the door. He'd changed clothes since Castiel had watched Dean lift him onto the bed, doing wonders for his appearance, but it didn't necessarily follow that he was healed.

"Better, yeah. Still got a headache, but nothing a couple aspirin can't handle." He shrugged, flushing slightly. "Sorry about last night; I didn't mean to crash on you like that."

"You remember collapsing?"

His flush deepened. "I barely remember getting us a room, but Dean told me about the whole passing out on the floor thing."

"You fainted," Dean corrected.

"I did not faint."

"Did so."

Sam opened his mouth and then shut it and nodded to Castiel. "I'll be back soon. Try not to let Dean do anything stupid."

Castiel wondered why Dean would do something stupid—and how, precisely, he was supposed to stop him—as Dean muttered something rude from under his blanket.

Sam took a few more steps towards the door and then turned back again. "Uh, just to make sure…angels aren't vegetarians, right?"

"_Dude,_" Dean groaned.

Castiel shook his head.

"All right, cool."

"Geek," Dean said as his brother shut the door, pushing the covers back and looking over at Castiel. "So how are you feeling?"

"Better. This…growling…feeling in my stomach is hunger, correct?"

"Yeah. No idea what Sammy's going to end up bringing back—probably chicken soup or something, he's annoying like that—but it'll take care of the grumbling stomach."

Castiel considered for a moment and then shifted to put his legs over the edge of the bed. He still felt weak, but it was not as immediate as it had been. The rest had been good for this shell. There was still pain, though, and after a minute he glanced over at Dean. "The medication that you offered last night—"

"You want some?" His eyes narrowed. "Exactly how bad are you hurt, anyway? I know you said not bad, but…." He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed, giving his forehead a rub. "Let's have a look, anyway. Just to be safe."

After a moment of thought, Castiel nodded slightly. It was probably a wise idea.

Dean reached over and picked up the bag still lying by the edge of his bed and then moved to sit on the edge of Castiel's bed. "Can you get your shirt off? And that stupid tie?"

It took a few minutes to work the buttons on the shirt loose—his jacket had been torn off him at some point in the fight so at least he didn't have that to worry about that—and even longer to loosen the knot the tie had been worked into, but eventually he was able to get them off.

"Damn, Cas, how long were they using you as a punching bag?"

"My n—" he broke off with a hiss of pain as Dean pressed lightly on one rib.


	7. A strange sensation

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed—hit 100 reviews which is very cool. Figured I'd try and get this chapter out a day or two early as a thank you. If there's anything in particular that you liked/disliked/had some other feeling about, please let me know._

_Still not mine._

* * * * *

"Easy," Dean said, pulling his hand back. "I don't think you've got any breaks but that rib's damn well cracked. Maybe one or two others as well, from the look of it. You've been moving around like this?" He shook his head. "Here's to adrenaline, I guess. And some of these cuts could stand to be cleaned, if not stitched. Well, actually," he turned the clock on the bedside table around and frowned at the lighted numbers for a moment, "it might be a little late for stitches, but we'll see. I, uh, I'm afraid this is going to hurt some. Sorry, but trust me, it'll be a lot worse if we leave them alone and anything gets infected."

Castiel discovered fairly quickly that 'some' was a rather weak word to describe the feeling of having scabbed over gashes reopened for cleaning and bandaging rather than simply healing them from the inside. And stitches were worse, even if Dean was only willing to put in a few, and only on the two deepest wounds. Between the speed that he worked and the light touch, it was fairly obvious that Dean knew what he was doing, but it still took time and was not something that Castiel wanted to experience again. Ever. Not to mention that aspirin tasted vile and left a disgusting residue in his mouth.

"How are you holding up?" Dean asked quietly, after tying off the last stitch in a particularly ugly gash just below Castiel's shoulder.

"I am…coping." It was by no means the first time that he had felt pain, after all, although there was a curious sense of immediacy to it that he had neither expected nor been prepared to deal with.

Dean patted his shoulder lightly. "Well, I think the worst is over, but you can go ahead and yell, if you want. Trust me, I _know_ how bad this kind of thing hurts."

Castiel cocked his head. Shouting was unlikely to either reduce the pain or make Dean work faster.

"Or don't, it was just a suggestion. Come on, let's get those ribs taped."

Castiel started to object—he hadn't forgotten the way it had felt when Dean had pressed on even _one_—but Dean had already pulled out a roll of white bandages.

"Believe it or not, this will actually feel a lot better when I'm done."

'Or not' seemed far more likely, but the pain in his chest did seem to become less…sharp…as Dean wrapped the cloth strips around his chest. Not that it was a pleasant experience. There was a light knock at the motel door as Dean was tightening the last bandage down, and Sam came in carrying two plastic bags in each hand.

"I thought you said you weren't hurt," Sam said, dropping the bags on the chair by the door and hurrying over.

"I said that my injuries were minor," Castiel corrected. "However, that may have been a slight…underestimation."

"You're as bad as he is," Sam said with a wave at his brother, leaning over to examine some of the visible wounds. "For the record, busted ribs aren't 'minor.'"

"Cracked, not broken," Dean said with a glare at Sam as he tucked in the end of the bandage in. "And only two. Did you bring me pie?"

Sam turned back for the bags, and a moment later a flattened cardboard container was tossed it onto the edge of Castiel's bed followed by a small plastic object with spikes on one end. "Cherry. But if you start puking again, you're on your own."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean waved a hand dismissively. "Hey, is my bag over there?"

Sam looked around and then nodded.

"Find Cas one of my shirts, would you?" He either didn't see or just ignored Castiel's half-glare for the mangling of his name—_why_ the two of them insisted on shortening it Castiel had no idea—and continued speaking. "His is pretty much shredded, and he's closer to my size than yours."

It took Castiel a few moments to struggle into the blue shirt Sam gave him…it fit well enough across his shoulders, but the sleeves were too long and kept getting in the way.

While he was working on the shirt, Sam moved the bags he'd brought onto the low table beside the television. "Uh, Cas…tiel, I've got soup, crackers, some stuff for turkey sandwiches, juice, ginger ale, and peanut butter. Anything sound good?"

Well, at least Castiel _recognized_ everything on that list. He looked up from the last and most stubborn button. "What do you prefer?"

"Go for the turkey," Dean suggested as Sam started to shrug. "He always gets the crappy low-fat peanut butter."

Sam rolled his eyes but turned back around and pulled out a package of bread as well as some sort of sliced meat and cheese when Castiel nodded. "Turkey sandwiches it is."

Eating was an…interesting…experience. The different foods—bread, turkey, cheese—that Sam had assembled all had such different textures in his mouth and throat, different flavors on his tongue. Good flavors, unlike the aspirin, but still it was a _strange_ sensation. And bits kept getting caught up in his teeth. They were washed away by the cup of orange something that Sam handed him, yet another flavor to learn, but there were little bits of something in that too. That seemed odd—it was supposed to be liquid, after all.

The feeling of his stomach becoming full was odd as well. That took more than one sandwich, but since Sam had three Castiel didn't think a second was out of order. He had some interest in the other foods that Sam had brought back as well, but since neither Winchester reached for any, he decided to leave the packages alone. Unless a miracle occurred, there would be plenty of time to try them later.

"Oh, Dean, have you seen my phone?" Sam asked as he downed the last of his third sandwich. "Forgot to check how tall the shelves in the mini-fridge were before I left…was going to call you guys and make sure the juice and stuff would fit, but it's not in my pocket."

Dean put down his pie—which, despite Sam's predictions, he didn't seem to be having any difficulty with—and reached over to grab the thin phone on the bedside table. "Here. Ellen called last night."

Sam took the phone. "Ellen? What did she want?"

"I don't know. She practically blew out my eardrums when I picked up the phone, and I got sick and had to hang up. Told her we'd call her back."

"Huh." Sam tapped a couple keys and then put the phone to his ear. "Hey, Ellen, it's Sam." A pause. "Yeah, yeah, we'll be fine. Just a little beat up. Our last hunt was pretty rough." Another pause. "A strange man? I don't…." He looked around frowning and then caught Castiel's eye and grinned slightly. "Oh, no, don't worry about it. He's cool. Friend of Dean's who turned out to be mixed up in our last case." His smile faded into a frown a moment later. "Jo? No, I haven't heard anything from her since that whole werewolf mess up in Maine."

"Jo?" Dean asked. "What werewolf mess?"

Sam held up a hand, still listening to the woman on the phone. "Detroit? Nothing recently, but I'll do some digging. Yeah. Yeah, no problem. I'll give you a call with whatever I find out, all right? Sure. Bye." He hit another button and tucked the phone into a pocket.

"Jo? Werewolf?" Dean repeated.

"She was on a hunt up in Maine a couple months ago, had some questions about werewolves," Sam said with a shrug. "So she called."

"We are talking about Jo Harvelle here, right? Joanna Beth Harvelle?"

"That's the only Jo I know."

"Well, since when is she a hunter?" Dean demanded.

Sam shrugged again. "No idea. First I heard of it was when she called to ask for ideas about tracking down some remains for a salt-and-burn."

"And you didn't think to ask for _details_?"

"It was about a week after you went to Hell, so I wasn't really in a catching-up-with-old-friends mood," Sam said sharply. "Besides, you know it's what she wanted…did you really think she _wasn't_ going to become one eventually?"

Dean considered for a moment and then shook his head with a disbelieving laugh. "So Jo Harvelle is a hunter. Damn. And _Ellen_ Harvelle is okay with this?"

Sam snorted. "Oh, believe me, Ellen is so _not_ okay with it that it's scary. But she doesn't want to cut her daughter out of her life entirely, so she's…dealing."

Dean looked at Sam for a long minute. "Don't suppose you had anything to do with that?"

"We might have talked a little."

There was something in the way they were speaking, the way they were looking at each other, that Castiel couldn't interpret, but this didn't seem to be the time to ask.

Dean picked up his pie again. "So what did Ellen want, anyway?"


	8. Reader's Digest edition

_Thanks again to everyone who reviewed. Always like to know what people like and dislike about the story._

* * * * *

Sam shrugged. "Part of Jo's side of the deal is calling and checking in with her mother about once a week…you know, just a 'Hey, hello, I'm still okay' kind of thing. Anyway, I guess she's been pretty good about it, but it's been over a week and a half since her last call, and since she's not answering her phone Ellen's getting worried. Well," he waved a hand, "more worried than usual, anyway. She wanted to know if I'd heard anything, and if I'd check what they were working on last."

"They?" Dean's voice sharpened.

"Jo and her partner."

"What partner?"

"Some guy…Micah, I think she said. Micah Collins." Sam rolled his eyes at the expression on Dean's face. "_No_, I don't know anything about him, just that they hooked up sometime before they tangled with a pair of werewolves up in Maine—that werewolf mess I mentioned. Which they did a nice job dealing with, by the way."

"But you got no details." Dean shook his head. "_Hopeless_. I mean, the guy could be a demon or something, and you just—"

"First of all, I had other things on my mind at the time," Sam interrupted. "And second of all, Jo is a big girl who's been hanging out around hunters for her entire life. She can take care of herself." He sighed, standing and moving the groceries from the low table to what looked like a small cabinet beside it. "Look, why don't you two use the laptop and start researching demonic handcuffs here, and I'll head for the local library and see what I can dig up there? I need to run a quick search on Detroit, anyway; I can use one of the public computers."

"Detroit?"

"Jo's last known location. Ellen thinks she was starting a new job."

Dean leaned back against the headboard, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought you said she was a big girl."

"Yeah, well, aside from the fact that she's also a friend, do _you_ want to call Ellen back and tell her we don't know anything?"

"Hell, no, that woman is scary."

Sam snorted and made a quick sketch of the symbols on the manacle around Castiel's right wrist before heading for the door. "See you in a couple hours."

"You object to your brother looking for this Jo?" Castiel asked after Sam had gone.

"What? No." Dean shook his head and got to his feet. "Like he said, she's a friend. It's just kind of lousy timing." He tossed the now-empty container that had held his pie into the wastebasket beside the small refrigerator. "Besides, it's fun messing with him."

"Hm." That made almost no sense to Castiel, but then it was hardly the first of Dean's actions that confused him. "How did you know that Sam was involved with what happened between this woman and her daughter?"

"Huh?"

"You asked whether he had anything to do with this Ellen 'dealing.'" It was easier, somehow, to ask questions of Dean than Sam…granted that Sam had yet to show any aversion to speaking to him or helping him or anything else, but the fact was that Dean _didn't_ have demon blood.

Dean shrugged, dropping down into one of the chairs by the small desk and twisting to look back at Castiel. "It's just that he and Dad kind of went through the same thing a few years back, except in reverse."

Castiel considered for a moment. "Your father wished to hunt and your brother didn't want him to?" That didn't sound correct, not based upon the information that he had.

"What? No." Dean rubbed his forehead. "How much do you know about us, anyway? I mean, you knew about Mom and old yellow eyes—Azazel—and Sam getting demon blood shoved down his throat, but do you know, like, the whole Winchester life story, or just the Reader's Digest edition?"

"Reader's Digest?" He knew what reading was, and two unrelated meanings for digest, but how either of them related to anyone's life story Catiel wasn't entirely certain.

"You know, the short version. Major highlights. First steps, first hunt, lost teeth, lost virginity, that sort of thing."

"I was given to know what was necessary." Which included none of the things that Dean had mentioned.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, that's nice and specific."

It was not, of course, but Castiel decided after a moment that that was probably an odd way of requesting elaboration. "As you said, I know that your brother has demon blood in him. I also know that you are both hunters, that you sold your soul to save his life, and that you were deemed worthy to be pulled from Hell." And that God had plans for him, although more details than that he could not give.

Fortunately Dean didn't seem inclined to press, a flicker of something…disturbed…crossing his face at Castiel's last statement.

Castiel stared. "You _still_ do not believe." Just how stubborn _was_ this mortal?

"Give the guy a cookie," Dean muttered and then held up a hand as Castiel opened his mouth to protest. And decline the cookie. "Just…forget it, all right? Do you want your question answered or not?"

Castiel nodded slightly, but he would not 'forget it.' And, eventually, he would convince Dean to recognize his own merit.

"Fine. When I said that Sam and Dad went through the same thing in reverse, I meant that Dad wanted Sam to hunt and Sam didn't want to."

"I don't understand." Sam was as much of a hunter as Dean was, he'd seen that himself.

Dean rubbed his forehead again. "It's…Dad became a hunter when Mom was killed, and he raised us to be hunters pretty much from then on. I can remember a little what it was like before that, but mostly…." He shrugged. "And Sam was only six months old when it all started. He doesn't remember _anything_ else. He doesn't even remember Mom. So when he got older, he wanted to try a different life. Stay in one place for awhile, go to school, that kind of thing, you know?"

Castiel shook his head, drawing a sigh.

"No, of course you wouldn't. But that's what Sam wanted, and once Sam decides he's going to do something, he generally does it. Stubborn bastard, let me tell you."

Similar to his brother then, although Castiel decided he'd keep that thought to himself.

"He didn't tell Dad what he was doing until it was all set…hell, he didn't even tell _me_." Dean's jaw clenched slightly. "Then when Sam told us he was going…man, Dad hit the roof. He'd raised us to be _hunters,_ not college students. Course Sam wasn't exactly pleasant about it either—pretty much started the conversation with 'I'm going to college and you can't stop me'—but still, none of their fights had _ever_ gotten that vicious before. Dad ended up telling Sammy that if he wanted to go, he should just go and not bother coming back." He laughed, but it had a hard, bitter edge. "So Sam left. That night. Just walked out the door with his backpack over his shoulder and didn't even look back."

"Your brother fought with your father…often?" Castiel had to ask. He was well aware that his situation was far different than that of any mortal man, but still. Having questions was enough of an anomaly; he couldn't imagine actively _opposing_ Father.

"Often?" Dean snorted. "From about Sam's twelfth birthday on, fighting was practically the only way they communicated. It's—don't get me wrong, they loved each other. They did. But Dad was the military type…do as I say, don't question orders, that kind of thing. You know?"

"Yes." That type of relationship he understood perfectly.

"Oh. Right." Dean shook his head. "Well, Sam's a good hunter, but he's also like Mr. Questions. Even when he was little it was 'why' this and 'why' that. And he'd never take 'I don't know' as an answer, either. Dad didn't deal real well with that sort of thing." He looked away for a moment. "Granted that sometimes the stuff Sam comes up with is a little crazy—I mean, who even comes up with an _idea_ like road-hauling a ghost?—but sometimes the answers to his questions helped us out, too."

"You believe your father was wrong?" Another foreign concept.

Dean frowned. "Not…not always. He did the best he could for us, and God knows there were plenty of times that even I was like 'Okay, Sammy, we need to kill the bad thing now; we can argue about good and evil and whatever else you want later.' There are still days like that. But…." He trailed off. "I guess I can see both sides of it. Anyway, after he left, Sam called me sometimes, especially at first, but Dad…he wouldn't even talk about him. I know he missed Dad, and I know Dad missed _him_—bragged about him to everyone and swung by Stanford every chance he got—but both of them were so damn stubborn they didn't speak to each other for four years."

The idea of being unable to speak to his father for four years made something inside Castiel's mortal shell clench, and Dean's words as he continued did nothing to dispel the feeling.

"If Sam had stayed in school instead of letting me drag him out hunting again, I don't think they would ever have spoken again. Ever. And one or the other of them would have ended up dead somehow with the two of them still in the middle of a stupid argument that they both wanted out of but wouldn't _do_ anything about." He gave a vicious shake of his head and then winced and raised a hand to his forehead, muttering something about stupid moves before returning his attention to Castiel. "Never mind, I guess it doesn't really matter now. The point is that I can't see Sam standing by if Jo and Ellen were really putting themselves through the same thing he and Dad did. Not if he thought he had a chance to do something abut it, anyway."

Castiel nodded in understanding, or at least as much understanding as he could give under the circumstances.

Dean leaned over and opened the last bag, pulling out a small computer. "All right, enough with the family history. Let's see what we can find out about those manacles. Hey, maybe if we can get a priest to _bless _a pair of bolt cutters, that'll do it."


	9. It's never nothing

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

* * * * *

By the time an hour had passed, Castiel had become convinced that there was something wrong with either the computer or Dean's search methods. Or, more likely, there was just no help to be found. They first few results that Dean had tracked down had been various stylized sketches, and Castiel had had some small hope that they might find the script on his manacles among them. They hadn't, unfortunately, and as they continued through more and more 'links' as Dean called them, sketches gave way to images—primarily of women, mostly wearing a distinct lack of clothing—in odd positions.

The first such result they'd come across Dean had shown some inclination to examine further, but then he'd given Castiel a decidedly guilty glance, muttered something about Hell, and moved on.

Half an hour more of searching and Dean leaned back, rubbing his forehead. "Sorry, man, but my head is killing me here. I'm going to have to lie down. You want to take a crack at it on your own?"

Castiel considered for a moment and then nodded. He still didn't understand _how_ the machine worked, but it seemed simple enough to operate.

"Cool." Dean clapped a hand on Castiel's shoulder, startling him for a moment, and then shifted over to stretch out on the nearest bed. "Wake me up if Sam calls."

"Of course." Because Castiel still wasn't entirely certain how to answer one of their miniature phones. He considered the computer for a moment and then tentatively entered 'marked manacles.' It would have been much easier if the letters weren't scattered all over the stretch of buttons in no pattern that he could make out.

The results he got weren't particularly helpful, at least no more so than what Dean had managed to find…there were manacles marked up and manacles marked down—both of which seemed to relate to pricing, somehow—and more strange pictures of women, but nothing even vaguely resembling the script on the bands around his wrists and neck.

No variation that he tried yielded anything more, and eventually he began to feel a dull ache behind his eyes.

"Anything?"

Castiel jerked away almost instinctively, twisting to find the younger Winchester brother only a few feet behind him.

Sam held up his hands and took a step backwards. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you. I just got back. How's Dean?"

"He said his head hurt and that he needed to lie down."

"Yeah, that's probably going to be happening for a little while." Sam moved to lean over his brother for a moment and then shook his head. "Concussions pretty much suck. So, anything?"

"Nothing that would be useful."

"Same here. Course it doesn't help that all that this town has is your standard local library…you want anything better for research purposes than a six year old encyclopedia and you're out of luck." He sank down in the chair Dean had vacated and squeezed his temples, his face once again bearing faint lines of pain. "And I think I'm going to have to head for Detroit, at least for a day or two. Maybe you and Dean could get a room in Phoenix while I go track down Jo; the main library there is big enough that it might be useful."

"Your friend is in trouble?"

"Looks like she might be. I mean, I couldn't find out anything definite, but it sure looks like something weird is going down up there, and considering that she's dropped right off the radar…." He shrugged, standing and moving to rummage around in one of the bags.

When he came up with the aspirin bottle—the taste of which Castiel had found slightly more objectionable than some of the more minor cuts he had had—Castiel frowned. "You are still in pain?"

"The migraines take a day or two to fade; it's not really a big deal." He tipped two aspirin into his hand and offered the bottle to Castiel, who shook his head quickly. "I don't know, I could be jumping at shadows. Maybe it's nothing and Jo's just got her phone turned off."

"But you don't believe that to be the case," Castiel pointed out. Sam's expression made that perfectly clear.

"Somehow, with us, it's never nothing." Sam put the aspirin bottle away and moved to sit back down in the chair beside Castiel. "Can I see that manacle again?"

Castiel offered his arm wordlessly.

He examined the band from all sides, running his fingertips lightly over the symbols. "How did the demons get this on you, anyway? I can't see any seam."

"The demon presiding over the sacrifice fused the metal around my wrist and then Marked it."

"Fused as in torches or…."

"Demonic powers."

"Damn." He didn't sound particularly surprised, though. "And by Marked, you're talking about those symbols?"

"Correct. Dean suggested getting a priest to bless a pair of bolt cutters."

A faint grin crossed Sam's face. "Yeah, that sounds about right. Although I guess it couldn't _hurt_; it's not like we've come up with any better ideas. He frowned suddenly. "What about holy water?"

"What about it?"

"It burns demons; maybe it will burn demon metal. Or melt it, anyway." Castiel's opinion must have shown on his face, because Sam held up his hands. "Hey, I'd say we stand a better chance trying that than convincing some random priest to bless _bolt cutters_. We're good at cover stories, but that's pushing it. Although…." He stared at Castiel for a moment. "You're an angel. Can't you bless things?"

"At the moment, no." Or, rather, he could, but it would have no more effect than Dean or Sam doing the same thing.

"Damn."

Castiel considered Sam' suggestion. It was true that they had no better ideas, and, realistically, nothing to lose in the attempt. "Do you have holy water?"

"Uh, yeah." Sam stood and retrieved a silver flask from one of the bags and held it out. "It's kind of a necessity in our line of work. There's more in the car if we need it."

Castiel considered the flask for a moment and then twisted the top tentatively. It came off easily enough, and he moved to pour some onto the manacle on his left wrist.

"Whoa, just a minute." Sam shut the computer and lifted it off the table, moving it to the edge of the bed Dean was lying on. "All right, give it a shot."

Castiel tipped the flask sideways, letting a few drops fall. Where the drops landed on the manacle, the metal sizzled, and he felt a faint surge of hope. And then he felt the _pain._

A tiny portion of himself that managed to hold itself apart from the fire in his wrist saw the flask slip from his fingers, and what seemed to be a massive wave of holy water splashed across the already-wet manacle. And then the pain was just too much, and he pushed himself to his feet, trying to get away. He could hear screaming, now, and someone shouting his name—or at least the mangled version the Winchester boys insisted on using—and he could vaguely make out blurred shapes in front of his face, but he could focus on nothing but the feel of searing flesh.


	10. Boy scouts, you know

_Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed._

* * * * *

His vision had gone nearly black and screams still rang in his ears when he became conscious of a new sensation. Someone had a tight grip on his arm, trying to pry it away from the meager protection his body could offer. He lashed out automatically, doing his best to knock the offender away. The searing pain felt as though it was burning his very bones; he wasn't going to let them make it worse. He _couldn't_ let them make it worse.

"_Do it!_" someone roared.

He tried his best to keep his arm against his body, tried keep it protected, but the grip was too strong, and—

Something cool and wet suddenly took the place of the burning pain, covering not only his wrist but most of his arm and chest as well, and he staggered from the sheer shock of it.

"Cas?"

Someone shook him lightly, and he blinked slowly, looking up from the ground to find Sam holding his arm away from his body and Dean standing beside the two of them. Dean held the now-empty container of orange juice in one hand, the other on Castiel's shoulder. And there was blood running from a gash in Sam's lip.

"Cas?" Dean prompted again with another light shake. "Are you all right?"

"It…hurt." At a level far beyond anything he had ever experienced. Granted that his experiences with mortal-type pain were limited to the injuries the demons had inflicted and that Dean had cleaned, but the feel of holy water against the manacle had been orders of magnitude worse.

"Yeah, we got that much," Sam said, releasing Castiel's arm and patting his free shoulder lightly. "Holy water was officially a _bad_ idea." He frowned and then licked his lip, reaching up to wipe the blood from his chin.

"_Holy water?_" Dean demanded, stepping back. "Holy water is supposed to burn _demons_, not…."

"It wasn't him," Sam said before Castiel could react, turning Castiel's wrist around and examining the deep red marks on either side of the Marked band. "It was some kind of reaction with the metal."

"Great." Dean put the orange juice bottle down on the table and rubbed his forehead. "It figures. Then again, I guess we've never exactly stuck Ruby's knife in a bucket of holy water, so maybe that's a normal reaction for demon-metal to have. Assuming they're even made of the same stuff...how many kinds of demon-metal do you think there are, anyway?"

A pounding at the door made all three of them start, and both Sam and Dean reached for their waistbands and the weapons held there.

"Is everyone okay?" a male voice called. "Open the door!"

"Come on." Sam pulled Castiel over to the nearest bed and pushed him into a sitting position, reaching for the bag that held the aspirin, while Dean went to the door.

"Can we help you?" Dean called through the wood.

"Open the door!"

Dean glanced back and then twisted the lock.

A blond man, shorter and wider than Dean, pushed his way in, looking past Dean to give Castiel and Sam a sharp look. "What's going on? We just got two reports of someone screaming in pain."

"Oh, it was nothing." Dean waved a hand, moving to block his view. "Just our…cousin. Burned his hand on the radiator."

"We're in the middle of Arizona. Our rooms don't _have_ radiators."

"Uh, right. We brought our own. Travel size. Boy Scouts, you know, always prepared." Dean planted a hand on the man's chest and pushed him back out the door, shutting it firmly and relocking it.

"Travel size?" Sam asked, flipping open the top on some sort of tube that he'd pulled from the bag. "_Boy scouts?_"

"Yeah, screw you. I vote we get out of here now before anyone else gets curious. The holy tax accountant's got a hell of a set of lungs." He rubbed his forehead again.

"Not a bad right hook either," Sam muttered, wiping his lip again before applying a layer of white cream to the two red bands of skin around the manacle on Castiel's wrist. "He's going to need another shirt, though."

"Shirts I've got." Dean leaned over to examine Sam's efforts and then winced as he shifted to stand fully upright again. "Does that even _work_ on demon-metal burns?"

"Well, it can't hurt." Sam studied Dean for a moment and then shook his head. "Look, you do the bandaging and I'll repack, all right?"

Dean nodded and sank down on the bed beside Castiel, bandaging his wrist neatly. Sam tossed a dry shirt in their direction and then stuffed what little they'd unpacked back into the bags, adding a few of the food items he'd purchased as well.

"On the road again," Dean muttered, shouldering one of the bags while Sam took the other two, and the three of them made their way down the narrow hallway towards the street. "Keys?" Dean asked, holding out his hand.

Sam stared for a minute. "Dude, you've got a concussion. You are not driving."

"Uh, yes, I am."

"Uh, no, you aren't."

"Sammy, give me the keys." Sam rolled his eyes and pushed open the exterior door, letting the bright sun shine into the hallway, and Dean winced, pulling away and digging around in his jacket until he found a pair of dark glasses. "I am _so_ going to kick your ass."

Sam didn't comment on the muttered threat, heading for the car and tossing both bags he carried into the trunk. The bag Dean carried followed—along with what Castiel assumed was yet another threat—and then Dean gave in and climbed into the back seat.

"Hey, Dean, was thinking earlier that maybe the two of you could hole up somewhere near the main library in Phoenix, see what you can dig up there," Sam suggested as they turned back onto the highway.

"And where are you planning on going?"

"Detroit. Uh, Castiel, pull that belt down across your chest and buckle it, would you?"

"Detroit?" Dean asked, leaning forward to take the metal buckle from Castiel and jam it into an odd looking latch.

"It looks like Jo might be in real trouble…figure we owe her and Ellen enough that someone ought to go check up on her."

"Well, you aren't going alone."

"Dean, it's not a big deal. I've hunted alone before."

"Yeah, when I was in Hell. Now, I'm back."

"Uh, hello, notice the beat up angel about two feet to my right? Kind of a priority at the moment." Sam made a dismissive gesture. "Like I said, it's no big deal. I'll be back in a couple days."

"Check a map, Sam; it'll take you a couple days just to get there."

"Unlike you, _I_ don't have any problems flying. I can catch a flight when we get to Phoenix, track her down, and fly back as soon as I'm done. You two keep working on the whole manacle thing."

"No."

"Dean—"

"_No_, Sam," Dean interrupted. "You hunt alone and you end up pulling freaky Jedi mind tricks and hooking up with demons. Not going to happen. We go together or not at all."

"So we either forget about Jo and whatever trouble she might be in or...what? Stick Cas in a safe deposit box for a couple days? That'll work well."

"I am a warrior of God," Castiel cut in. Which might not mean a great deal bound as he was, but it did mean that he wasn't going to hide away—or allow himself to be hidden—like a helpless child. "And, once again, my _name_ is Castiel."

"Uh…right. Sorry." Sam twisted to look back at Dean, and the two of them were engaged in silent conversation for few seconds before Sam turned back around. Much to Castiel's relief since it seemed that at the speed they were moving Sam should really be keeping his eyes on the road in front of them. Granted that said road was straight and fairly deserted, but as Castiel was currently trapped in this mortal shell, he'd just as soon it not become any more damaged than it already was.

"Road tripping to Detroit just in time for winter," Dean said with a sigh. "This ought to be fun."


	11. Enough

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

_I know some people want longer chapters, but I'm trying for shorter chapters with more frequent updates with this story as opposed to my previous ones…I'm probably going to try and finish it in this format, although that's not definite at the moment._

* * * * *

As soon as he had his powers back, he was going to smite them both. Father would understand.

After the decision had been made to go to Detroit instead of Phoenix, Sam had hit a few buttons on a white box that looked somewhat similar to their miniature phones, albeit with fewer buttons, and music had begun to play out of the speakers. Castiel would have admitted—if, of course, someone had asked—that he hadn't spent a great deal of his time analyzing mortal music, but he hadn't found the sound unpleasant. A bit _odd_, but that was basically consistent with the rest of his mortal experiences. Unfortunately Dean hadn't agreed with his assessment so rather than actually listening to the music, he had gotten to listen to Winchester boys argue about it. An amusing situation for the first five minutes, but _only_ the first five minutes.

Fortunately, Dean had fallen back asleep on fairly short order, his jacket thrown over his face, and Sam and Castiel were able to listen in relative peace. Of course, since Sam had turned the music he preferred back on while Dean was napping, when he awoke the same argument had been repeated. Almost verbatim. And then they'd moved on to arguing about _Dean's_ preferred music—something about five repeating albums and mullet rock. Castiel hadn't been able to determine what, precisely, a mullet rock was, but he'd been afraid to inquire for fear that it would prolong the argument. Of course, they had then progressed to arguing about _arguing,_ and were showing no signs of ceasing at any point in the near future; hardly an improvement.

Castiel nodded to himself. Father would definitely understand. If he and his siblings squabbled like this, they would all have been done away with two thousand years ago.

"—ou hadn't been such a bitch," Dean was saying, "then maybe it would have been easier."

Sam grinned. "Yeah, well, coming from the world's biggest jerk…you know, if it weren't for the fact that we were never in one place for more than—"

"Oh, please," Dean interrupted. "I would totally have ruled the—"

"_Enough!_"

There was a long moment of silence as Dean cut off the rest of his sentence and the two of them stared at him as though they'd forgotten he was even there.

"Uh…what's wrong?" Dean finally asked.

"By my calculations, the two of you have been arguing for nearly an hour. I have had _enough_."

Sam looked back at Dean and then the two of them shrugged. "Uh…okay," Sam agreed.

There was silence for several minutes, and then Dean reached over the seat and slapped Sam's shoulder. "I'm getting hungry; let's find a pizza place or something."

"Yeah, all right. I figure if we stop for food now, we can keep going maybe into Albuquerque and get a room there for the night."

"Albuquerque? That'll only take us…what? Four or five more hours?"

"Something like that, yeah. So?"

"So I thought that you were the one that was in such a hurry to get us to Detroit. I mean come on, it's not like we've never driven all night before."

"Sure, when we were both in decent shape. But I'm not trading off driving with you the day after you woke up from a concussion—I'm _not_, Dean, so don't even say it—and I'm still running on aspirin. And Castiel can't drive."

Dean forward between the seats to grin at Castiel. "Hey, Cas, haven't you always wanted to learn to drive?"

"No. And my—"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Let me guess…your name is Castiel? Dude, chill, we know."

"Then why do you continually insist on mangling it?"

"It's not _mangling_, it's just…easier. Like Sam instead of Samuel." He jerked his head at his brother and then winced and reached into his pocket, pulling the dark glasses back out and settling them on his nose.

Castiel frowned. Sam was 'Sam' simply because that was how Dean thought of and referred to him, and he hadn't considered the younger Winchester a great deal except as it related to his brother. Even the demon blood was…ancillary…at least from his point of view, although no doubt some of his brothers would disagree. "I don't understand."

"It's a nickname," Dean said. "In this case just a shortened version of your real name. I mean, it could be worse—we could be calling you obnoxious-pain-in-the-ass-who's-allergic-to-straight-answers-and-doesn't-know-how-to-knock."

"Dean," Sam began.

"Well, I'm not saying we _would_, just that it could be worse."

"Dude…." Sam trailed off, shaking his head. "Never mind. Although, honestly, Cas—Castiel—it's probably safer if we _do_ just stick to Cas. I mean, if you tell someone your name is Cas, they'll assume it's a nickname, like we've been using it as, and forget about it. That's generally what we're going for when we're working; the whole not standing out thing. It doesn't always work, but it leaves less of a trail. If you go around telling people your name is Castiel, though, _that_ they'll remember. There's just not a lot of little Castiels running around."

Castiel made a noncommittal noise. He hadn't had a nickname in two thousand years, and he really had no desire for one now.

"Hey. There. Pizza." Dean slapped Sam's arm and gestured at one of the blue roadside signs, seemingly forgetting about the entire subject of nicknames.

"All right, works for me." Sam swung the car off the road and a moment later into the parking lot of a rather dilapidated building with a sign claiming that said building was actually Mama Lucia's Famous Pizza. Dean groaned a little getting out of the car, bringing his arm up to shield his eyes even with the dark glasses still on his face, but other than that he seemed all right.

A woman at the entrance got them seated and brought out three listings of all the offered food, although after a cursory flip through Sam and Dean put the listings aside and began arguing about various types of meats and vegetables.

"You want to get something from the menu, or just split and extra large with me and Sam?" Dean asked.

"Extra large?"

"Pizza. You know, since we're in a pizza place? We're getting triple cheese with sausage and pepperoni, and then he's insisting on putting a bunch of vegetable crap on there too."

"I…pizza is fine." He had a vague notion of what pizza was.

"Cool."

"Hello, gentlemen, are you ready to order or would you like a few more minutes?" a woman—girl, really—with features strikingly similar to those of the woman who'd shown them to a table, asked.

"I think we're ready," Dean said, smiling up at her.

"All right, well, let's start off with drinks. What'll it be?"

"I'll have a coke," Dean said.

"Same for me," Sam agreed.

She looked to him, and Castiel glanced at the two boys. "Same for me?"

"All right, three cokes." She smiled again and scribbled something on a tiny pad of paper. "And to eat?"

She was still looking at him, but fortunately Dean spoke before he actually had to place the order.

When he finished, she scribbled something else in the little pad of paper and then nodded. "Okay, I'll go get your drinks now, and the pizza will be ready in about twenty minutes."

"Dude, jailbait," Sam muttered as Dean watched her walk away.

"Oh, come on, I don't always…shut up."

Sam was still snickering under his breath when the girl brought three glasses to the table. This liquid was even odder than the orange juice had been…dark, with an oddly sweet smell—although no bits of anything, which Castiel appreciated—but did have bubbles. Even though it was cold. He took a tentative sip and then began to cough as the bubbles flowed into his mouth and down his throat, popping as they went.

Dean slapped his back. "Cas? What's wrong?"


	12. I was not ‘jammed down his throat’

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

_For the record, Supernatural is still not mine. Also, computers are evil._

* * * * *

"Sam, quit whining and go play pool."

"I am not whi—"

"Yes, you are. Look, we're going to get into Detroit tomorrow, and unless you want all three of us trying to camp in an ice cold car, we need to make some money. Like tonight. I'm not seeing any poker games around, so _go play pool_."

Sam rolled his eyes, tipped a portion of the contents of the cup he held onto his shirt, and downed the rest in one gulp. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

Dean turned back to the bar, but Castiel watched as Sam—moving more slowly than usual, and stumbling slightly for some reason—made his way to the green-topped tables by the far wall and struck up a conversation with one of the men standing idle.

"Hey," Dean slapped his arm lightly. "Eyes front. We'll wander that way later, but we've got to let him get settled in first. Keep them from getting suspicious. 'Sides, we still need to loosen you up a little. Half the people here are probably just waiting for you to pull out a stack of W-2s."

"A stack of what?"

"Never mind. Bartender!" He waved a hand, and the man shut the register and came over to them. Dean pushed Castiel's still half-full glass of water across the bar, along with his own empty glass. "My cousin, here, he's finally decided to get out and live a little. Give us two, uh—two of whatever he's having." He indicated the person closest to them, a man sitting a few stools down staring intently into his drink.

"Coming right up," the bartender said with a smile, before Castiel could protest the loss of his water. He'd decided yesterday evening that water was the one and only entirely safe thing to drink around the Winchesters—all too much of what _they_ liked seemed to have those ridiculous bubbles that Sam referred to as carbonation. He had yet to be able to drink a glass without coughing. Or, worse, hiccupping, which for some reason the boys seemed to find hilarious.

"It's blue," Castiel observed as the bartender set two glasses on the bar, one in front of him and one in front of Dean.

"That it is." Dean picked up his glass and took a swallow. "Damn, that's not bad."

Castiel lifted his glass as well, considering it for a moment. The liquid was _quite_ blue. In fact he was fairly certain that he'd never seen anything in that particular shade before.

"Uh, Cas, the idea is to drink that."

"Yes." And his name was Castiel, but he'd decided to accede to the boys' suggestion and go by 'Cas', at least in public. Although they had continued to do so in private, as well, despite repeated corrections. He considered the glass for a moment longer, but…unorthodox…behavior aside, the Winchester boys had yet to lead him to any kind of deliberate harm. He mimicked Dean's actions and took a large swallow. And then nearly dropped the glass in surprise as a strange warmth spread down his throat. It didn't precisely taste _bad_, just…odd. He tapped his free hand on the bar lightly. He was having to use that word to describe mortal sensations far too often for his tastes.

"Pretty good, huh?" Dean asked.

"I…." Castiel set the glass down on the bar carefully. "It is…different."

"What, liquor not your thing? And you spit that sip of beer halfway across the motel room last night, too…man, what _do_ angels do for fun? Play mah-jongg?"

"Beer is vile." And the concept of fun was something he had only a passing acquaintance with.

Dean snorted, finishing his glass and waving to the bartender to bring another. "Guess that explains why you decided to posses a tax accountant."

"I told you before, he was a devout man. He prayed for this."

"Yeah, well, I still think that's nuts. I mean, what was the prayer—'Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, and by the way, if you feel like jamming an angel down my throat, go for it'?"

"He asked to be used in the service of God's will. And I was _not_ 'jammed down his throat'."

"Guess that's seriously one of those careful what you wish for things, then. Or pray for, as the case may be." Castiel stared at him for a moment, and Dean shrugged. "Let's just say I have a feeling you might have taken the guy a little more literally than he intended."

"God can see into the heart of a man."

"I…right." Dean shook his head. "But I'm still thinking the guy didn't see _you_ coming. However you got in." He took another drink and then turned back to Castiel. "Uh, do me a favor and remind me to tell Sam that if he still prays, he really needs to tack on a 'but no possession by angels' clause. Just in case."

Castiel couldn't think of any circumstance in which Father would use a demon-touched mortal as a vessel, but there seemed to be little point in saying so. He nodded.

"And speaking of Sam, we should probably go make some money." Dean picked up his glass and stood, indicating the mostly-full glass still in front of Castiel. "Come on, and bring that along. You don't have to drink it if you don't want to, but a guy standing around a bar at midnight with no alcohol looks a little weird."

"What are we going to do?"

"I believe the technical term is 'hustle.'"

"We are going to move quickly?"

"Uh, not exactly. Well," he shrugged, "actually we might, later—it sometimes works out like that—but…."

Castiel followed Dean across the room, towards the green-topped table where Sam was now playing a game against an older man. Billiards, the game was called, if he remembered correctly, although he had no idea how it was actually played.

Dean grunted something in the general direction of a couple other men watching, taking up a position leaning against the wall. Castiel moved to stand beside him.

"Dude, _slouch_, would you?" Dean muttered under his breath, before turning to the nearest observer. "How's the game?"

"Just started this one, but they've been at it, for a bit."

"Kid's doing all right," one of the other men said.

Dean gave Sam a considering glance as Sam whacked one of the balls with a stick, sending it careening into several other balls, one of which dropped into holes in the table. "Eh, not bad."

The man who'd made the statement about Sam glanced at another quickly, and then, "Couple of us have a little side bet going…technically this game's already started, but we could probably still let you in. If you're interested."

"Hm." Dean stared at Sam again, as though he'd never seen him before, and then, "Sure, why not. What're the stakes?"

Dean had turned slightly away from Castiel to speak to the man, and Castiel was starting to move up beside him when a thin figure with blonde and—purple?—hair appeared in front of him, smiling up at him. "Hey, handsome."


	13. The angel started it

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed._

_Life is still crazy, and computers are still evil, but don't worry, I haven't stopped working on this._

* * * * *

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!"

"Serves you right," Sam muttered, handing a second ice pack to Castiel, who mimicked Dean's actions and put it on his bruised eye. "What kind of idiot pimps out an angel?"

"Hey, you are _not_ putting this one on me," Dean returned. "Cas picked that chick up all by himself. Who knew she'd turn out to be a psycho?"

"I did not pick her up," Castiel corrected, moving the ice pack away from his eye slightly. On one hand it did seem to help with the throbbing, but it was so cold it was almost painful in its own right. "She sat on me."

Both Winchesters turned and stared at him for a moment and then shook their heads in unison.

"Uh…right," Sam said. "But I still don't understand what happened. I mean, I saw you and Dean come over, you disappeared, and then twenty minutes later I turned around and the two of you were fighting half the bar."

"Kicking their asses too," Dean said, with a grin that changed to a wince as it stretched his split lip.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that." Sam leaned over the arm of the chair and dug around in the bag beside it, pulling out a third ice pack and resting the knuckles of his right hand on it. "Just be glad I grabbed the bet money while those guys were looking the other way, otherwise we'd be sleeping in the car right now."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Instead of this lovely upscale motel with wallpaper older than we are; yeah, yeah, we get it."

"Hey, it has heat, doesn't it?"

"It's like fi—"

Castiel frowned and interrupted the argument. It was really the only way to quiet the two of them when they started acting like that. "You stole money?"

"Well…technically," Sam said, shifting slightly. "But I was going to win the game, so we would have gotten it anyway."

Dean grinned—and winced—again. "Awfully shady business there, Sammy."

Sam made a decidedly rude gesture. "I'm still waiting to hear what happened."

"Well, don't look at me; I am too. I was watching you—you almost lost those guys with that double bank shot on the three, you know?—and then I turned around to check out how he and the chick were getting along, and I see this big guy taking a swing at his head." He shifted his gaze to Castiel. "That was a _nice_ block by the way."

Castiel tilted his head slightly. He had spent some of the last two thousand years working on it, after all.

"So I went over to try and help—kind of figured he was an ex-boyfriend or something like that," Dean continued, "but when I said Cas was my cousin, the psycho-chick shrieked and punched me in the eye. I was still trying to figure out what was going on when someone grabbed me from behind, and…." He shrugged. "You know how it goes, sometimes, once a fight starts everyone joins in. This time they just all happened to be on the other side." He turned to Castiel. "What _did_ start it?"

Castiel shook his head. "I'm not entirely certain myself. The young woman approached me during your game, Sam, and insisted that I accompany her back to her table." In fact, she had grabbed his arm and attempted to physically drag him back with her, saying something about him looking lonely. At first he had resisted, but Dean had snickered and given him a shove in that direction with a nonsense phrase about tigers, so he had gone.

"Her behavior was rather strange…when I sat down in one of the chairs, she sat on me." He frowned, tapping the fingers of his free hand against the bedspread lightly. "I still don't understand why; there was a chair on the other side of the table that looked perfectly sound."

Dean choked, and for some reason Sam suddenly seemed to find the carpet at his feet fascinating.

"Is something wrong?"

"Uh…no, nothing important," Sam said, still not looking at him. "Please, go on."

"We conversed for a short time, and then she suggested that I might offer her something." In retrospect, he should have understood the woman's purpose sooner, particularly in light of some of the decidedly suggestive comments she had made during their conversation, but it had been a rather long time since he'd paid any attention to _that_ aspect of human behavior. And he still didn't understand why she had selected him. Surely there were more obvious prospects in the bar. "I attempted to explain to her that I had no interest in sexual intercourse and thus didn't require the services of a whore, b—."

"Y—b—I—" Sam stuttered, before he could continue. Now he _was_ looking directly at Castiel, eyes wide, and although his mouth continued to move, no more sounds came out.

Dean had progressed to coughing rather than choking, which seemed somewhat healthier, although as reactions went it was no more useful than Sam's. Castiel looked back and forth between the two, uncertain if he should continue.

"Uh, Cas, y-you didn't—you didn't actually use the word 'whore' at any point when speaking to her, did you?" Sam finally managed to ask.

"Yes. That was when she leapt up and punched me in the eye."

Dean's coughing dissolved into what appeared to be hysterical laughter as he flopped backwards on his bed, and Sam groaned and buried his face in his hands, ignoring the ice pack that slid off his lap and onto the floor.

"I _am_ familiar with the custom of trading money for sexual favors—that sort of human interaction has been occurring for longer than I've existed," Castiel pointed out. He had brothers and sisters whose duties consisted almost entirely of watching over such people.

Dean stopped laughing long enough to look over at him and then promptly began again.

"Is the term 'whore' no longer correct?" Neither was showing any sign of answering, or indeed, doing anything to relieve his confusion, and once again his desire for his powers rose. And not simply because he missed Father's guidance. With powers, he could at least _force_ one of them to talk to him.

"I—Cas—she—I—" Sam tried again, and then gave up and put his head back down in his hands.

"Dude, she wasn't a whore," Dean said, bringing his laughter under control as he rolled onto his side, still somehow managing to hold his ice pack in place. "Just a co-ed out looking for a good time." He seemed to consider for a minute. "A co-ed who'd probably had a couple drinks, seeing as she was trying to pick up a tax accountant instead of me, but…."

"I am not _that_ deficient in my understanding of human behavior."

"Look, I'm not saying she wasn't maybe _considering_ a little, uh, sexual intercourse, later on, but that still doesn't mean she was a whore."

Castiel considered for a moment and then shook his head. "No, I am certain. She suggested that I offer her something—clearly payment."

"Actually, she was probably suggesting that you offer her a _drink_," Sam said, rejoining the conversation and reaching down for his ice pack. "It's pretty much the normal thing for a guy to do when he's interested in a girl. I take it the guy who tried to hit you was one of her friends?"

"I believe he indicated that he was her brother." He hadn't understood everything that man who'd been seated at the next table had shouted at him before making a clumsy attempt at a punch.

"You called her a whore in front of her—oh, _man_." And, once again, Dean laughed and Sam groaned.

"This is great," Dean said after a minute, pushing himself into back a sitting position and using the hand not holding the ice pack to wipe away the blood that had once again begun to trail from his split lip. "You know, there just aren't that many people who can legitimately claim 'the angel started it' when it comes to a bar fight."

"_I_ started the fight?" Castiel asked. He had made no aggressive moves during the conversation, nor had he thrown the first punch, or even the second punch for that matter. "Are you certain?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean said. "I mean, if—well, if somebody called Sammy a whore, I'd probably be too busy laughing to do anything else, but if I had a _sister_, and some guy called her a whore, I'd definitely flatten him. Hell, I'd do that for just about any girl; most decent guys would." He lowered the ice pack and switched from checking his lip to probing his eye gingerly. "Although I'd still like to know why being your cousin warranted me getting a black eye."

"Guilt by association." Sam shook his head. "Look, I think this whole thing probably qualifies as a major cultural misunderstanding. Cas, for future reference, don't _ever_ refer to any woman as a whore. _Ever_. No matter what. 'No thank you' is a nice, all-purpose response."

Dean lay back on the bed, snickering again. "The angel started it…damn. Well, at least this way we'll be rested when we get into Detroit."

* * * * *

_Not my favorite chapter, but despite a couple dozen attempts I had no luck writing out a convincing version of the actual conversation between the woman and Castiel, so you just get the aftermath. Sorry. But we're almost to Detroit, so at least they can start hunting soon._


	14. You could have told me

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

_Still working. Slowly, but working (which would be easier if just one of the computers would stay functional, but….)_

* * * * *

"What was that?" Dean demanded, opening the door to a rather decrepit motel room.

"You were attempting to intimidate him, yes?" Castiel asked, following him in.

"Well, yeah, but…." He shook his head. "Come on, I get threatened with getting sent back to Hell, the most you can manage with that creep is a lecture on the state of his soul?"

"_What?_"

Castiel turned to find Sam coming out of the bathroom, a small unfamiliar bag in his hand and an accusing looked aimed at his brother. Dean didn't seem inclined to answer, so he did. "We were attempting to get more information out of the man at the front desk—"

"Yeah, I know _that_ part," Sam interrupted, voice lowered to just above a growl. He shifted his glare to Castiel, and Castiel stiffened at the sudden subtle feel of evil. It wasn't as strong as it had been when Sam had faced down the demon attempting to sacrifice him, but it was definitely there. "You threatened to send Dean back to Hell?"

"Chill, Sammy, it was awhile back," Dean cut in, before Castiel could say anything. Just as well; Castiel would, of course, have responded in the affirmative since he _had_ made such a threat, and he doubted that whatever Sam said or did in return would be pleasant.

Sam's eyes, still locked on Castiel's, didn't even blink. "You could have told me."

Castiel wasn't entirely certain what he was supposed to say to that—it seemed a strange thing to bring up in conversation, and he hadn't had that many conversations with Sam _anyway_ before he'd found himself bound—but Dean began to speak again.

"Yeah, well, we both could have said a lot of things when I first got back, couldn't we have?" Dean stepped between Sam and Castiel, effectively breaking the glare. "Just forget it, all right? I was being kind of obnoxious, and he obviously _didn't _end up sending me back, so it doesn't really matter. Did you find anything?"

Sam was silent for a moment longer, and then he shook his head and sighed, and the faint taint of evil faded. "Just this." He held up the bag. "Under the sink in the bathroom. It has some makeup and other…stuff…in it, but no way to say whether it's Jo's or not. Thought about calling Ellen to see if she recognized anything, but it's all pretty generic, and I didn't want to get her hopes up."

"Damn." Dean ran a hand through his hair. "And despite Cas' sure-to-frighten-a-_nun_ tactics, we couldn't get anything more out of the guy at the front desk, either. She might have been here, she might not have been here…the guy would probably confess to seeing Elvis if he thought he could get something out of it." He sank down on the bed. "You know, this doesn't really look like the kind of place Jo would stay."

Castiel once again surveyed the dilapidated motel room and wondered what sort of person would. It was considerably worse than any place he'd yet stayed in with the boys…granted that if it was necessary he certainly _could_ stay here, but it would not be his first choice. The majority of the lights didn't seem to work, there were suspicious crunching noises coming from under his boots about half the time he took a step, and the entire room had a rather distinctive—and unpleasant—odor.

Sam shook his head. "I know, but it's the best lead we've got. Jo and Micah Stewart, checked in eleven days ago according to the registry and haven't been seen or heard from since."

"Could be a coincidence." Dean pulled a small flashlight out of his back pocket and used it to peer inside the nightstand drawers. "You sure you checked everywhere?"

"I'm sure. And maybe it is just a coincidence, but the phone company can't get a trace on her cell, which means that it's either off or destroyed, this is the neighborhood at least a couple of the other disappearances have happened in, and we couldn't find any other Jo-Micah combinations in any of the motel registries." He shrugged. "I don't know; we might just have to work the case from the beginning and hope that leads us to them."

"Great. What is the case, anyway? A bunch of people have disappeared?"

"Well…not a _bunch_, but yeah, that's the gist of it."

Dean slapped a hand against the mattress. "How do we even know that this is our kind of case, anyway? Could be some psycho—hell, given the neighborhood, they might have just _left_. I know I would."

"Except Ellen thinks that Jo would have called, and this is her last known location, so…."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean waved a hand. "All right, let's hit the library; see if the local papers have anything to say. You've got that list of potential disappearances, right?"

"Yeah, it's in the car."

* * * * *

"What, precisely, are we looking for?" Castiel asked, indicating the stack of newspapers that Dean had picked up before leading him to a table hidden in a back corner of the library.

"Details about our missing people, for one," Dean said, dropping the newspapers on the table and pulling the list that Sam had provided out of his pocket. "And any other missing people, strange occurrences, unexplained deaths, that sort of thing. Sammy's going to check the library computers, see if there's any more information there."

"Did he not already search his own computer?"

"Their computers have access to databases ours doesn't—local papers that require a subscription, that kind of thing. Unfortunately not all of the papers have moved into the digital age, so…." He indicated the stack in front of them.

Castiel wasn't entirely certain what a base of data might be, but he was willing to accept Dean's word that it was useful. And, in truth, he was rather glad to be separated from Sam from awhile; the taint of evil hadn't returned, but the glare had. At least twice. He took a newspaper off the top of the stack.

"The obituaries are generally a good place to start," Dean offered. "If you see anything that looks useful, mark it."

Three hours later, Castiel's fingers were covered with a thin film of grime that wouldn't rub off no matter how he tried, and he was starting to wonder why humans bothered to print so much inconsequential information. He, for one, had no desire to make his hair 'silky smooth', yet he'd counted eleven different concoctions that would do so in just the last half an hour of reading. He also now knew where to buy a tractor, the location of seven jewelry stores, and who to call to place his own advertisement.

"Hey," Sam greeted—his brother, not Castiel—dropping down into one of the vacant seats at the table. "Anything?"

Dean slammed another paper onto the top of the 'useless' stack. "No. Or not much, anyway. Couple more disappearances, but no real details: a guy who worked at the Salvation Army who didn't make it home two weeks ago, pretty much the same story with a mechanic last week, and then a girl scout Sunday."

"A girl scout?"

"It's a disappearance," Dean said with a shrug. "But according to the police there's no suspicion of foul play—apparently the girl's parents were in the middle of a messy divorce so the theory there is that her father was afraid of losing custody and kidnapped her. There's nothing out of the ordinary in the obits, either—and I mean _nothing_, the weirdest death they've had in the past month has been an old dude who had a heart attack playing Grand Theft Auto—and no witnesses to anything odd. Well, with the exception of a guy who apparently saw a flying saucer the week before last, but unless the Trickster is back in town I'm just going to assume he's nuts."

"Damn. Well, check this out." Sam set a map with two blue circles and several red X's drawn on it on the table. "Started working on this when I couldn't get anything more out of the computer." He indicated the inner circle. "This is about a one-mile radius around the motel, and this one is a three-mile radius. Now, four of the eleven potential victims we tracked down earlier either lived or worked inside one mile, and four more within three, and I've got two more to add to that list, not counting Jo and Micah. A nurse who was supposed to start work a couple weeks ago Mercy Hospital and never showed up, and a bag lady."

"A bag lady?"

Sam shrugged. "I guess she was pretty much a fixture on that block; when she stopped coming around people noticed. Police didn't have anything to say about it, but…."

Dean pulled over the papers they'd marked and scanned the articles. "Well, add another X for the mechanic; the shop he worked at is right there." He stabbed a finger at a spot not too far from the motel. And the Salvation army is just outside the three mile mark—you've got another X there."

"Right, the basketball coach who went missing about a month ago. He's on the original list. What about the girl scout?"

"Um…," Dean shuffled the newspapers quickly. "From the other side of town, it looks like." He shrugged and then stared at the map for a minute. "Well, I'm thinking something strange is definitely going on—that's a few too many people going missing in just too small a space for it to be a coincidence—but damned if I can see any real pattern. Looking at those circles, we've got, what, a mechanic, a nurse, a bag lady, two Salvation army guys, a fast food worker, a garbage man, an electrician, a retired police officer, a florist, some lady from Meals-On-Wheels, and a retired teacher?"

"And two hunters."

"Yeah." He rubbed his forehead. "It just doesn't make sense—sure it looks weird all drawn out, but what made Jo think this was a case in the first place?"

Sam shrugged. "She's been around hunters her whole life, and it's not like we've hunted everything out there. Maybe we're missing something."

Dean sighed. "Guess we'd better start talking to the families. Cas, I'm guessing you can do a pretty good priest."

* * * * *

_I can't remember whether Dean ever told Sam about Castiel's threat to send him back to Hell, but I'm fairly certain it didn't happen onscreen, so for the purposes of this story, I'm assuming that he didn't._


	15. Don't angels outrank priests?

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

* * * * *

"Come on, Cas, who's more qualified? You or us? We're wearing them."

Castiel crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Dean. And the collar he was holding out.

"Dude, he's not going to do it."

Castiel shifted his glare to the man leaning against the side of the car. Sam hadn't spoken directly to him since the incident in the motel room earlier, and it was getting rather annoying.

"Look, we'll do the talking," Dean pressed, ignoring his brother. "Just wear the damned thing and don't mention that you _aren't _a priest. That's not really lying, it's just—"

"It's a lie of omission," Castiel pointed out.

"Oh, please, it's a fib, _maybe_. Besides, don't angels outrank priests? That's got to count for something." He didn't wait for Castiel's response. "And what else can we be, anyway? Two priests and their friend the accountant? Nobody'll buy that. And we can't be insurance guys since as of right now the people are only considered missing so nobody's filed any claims."

Sam turned to adjust his own collar, using his reflection in the window. "I still say the feds would be a better bet. Go in as an FBI missing persons unit type thing. We've still got time to rent a couple tuxes before the shops close."

Dean made a face. "I hate monkey suits. Besides, you know people talk more to priests. You get…confessions…and all that crap. Uh, no offense."

Well, at least it wasn't blasphemy, Castiel decided after a moment, and after a minute of thought he dipped his head. He would 'go with it' as the boys put it, although if asked directly he would _not_ claim to be a priest.

"All right, then."

* * * * *

The house they pulled up to was about on par with the neighborhood it was in…according to Sam it looked 'a little run down,' but Castiel thought 'dilapidated' was much closer to the truth.

"Game faces," Dean muttered as they headed for the door. "Greg Alvarado, went missing about a month ago, lived with his mother, sister, and nephew." He pressed a finger against the doorbell, and when there was no response knocked sharply on the wood.

This time footsteps, albeit slow footsteps, could be heard clearly, and a moment later the door opened a few inches to reveal an older woman. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

Dean smiled. "Hello, ma'am. I'm Father Alvin, this is Father Simon," he gestured at his brother, before nodding to Castiel, "and Father Theodore. We're from Saint Patrick's; we worked with Greg down at the Salvation Army on occasion. When we hadn't seen him for awhile we got a little worried, and then we heard that he was missing…we were just wondering if there was anything you might need, anything that we could do for you?"

"Oh, that's so nice of you." Her face relaxed, and when she shut the door Castiel could hear the rustling of a chain before she reopened it again, this time fully. "Please, come in."

Dean stepped back to allow Sam and Castiel to enter first, and Castiel wondered at the exasperated look Sam gave his brother before entering and offering the woman his arm politely.

The room immediately off the entrance was apparently supposed to be some sort of sitting room, and Castiel gingerly took a seat in the battered chair by the far wall while Sam and the woman sat on the couch and Dean leaned against the wall.

"You said you worked with Greg?" she asked.

"A few times," Sam answered. "The church has helped with a few youth programs…you know, sports, after school activities, that sort of thing. He was very helpful—great with the kids."

"That's my Greg," the woman said with a smile, patting Sam's hand. "He's always been that way, since he was a boy."

"Do you kn—"

There was a creak as the front door opened, and then a young boy darted past the sitting room without even a glance. "Gramma!"

"There's no need to shout, Daryl."

The boy doubled back. "Hi!"

"Daryl, get back here and help me with these groceries," a woman's voice demanded.

"Laura, we have company," the older woman—whose name they still didn't know—called. A young woman appeared at the entrance to the sitting room a moment later, and the older woman smiled and patted Sam's hand again. "These nice boys are from St. Patrick's; they work with Greg sometimes. This is my daughter Laura, Greg's sister. I'm sure he mentioned her."

"Of course," Sam said immediately. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too." She turned to look back out the door. "Uh, let me just get the groceries in, and then if I can get you some water or—"

"We're fine," Dean assured her. "But let me give you a hand with those groceries." She opened her mouth, obviously to protest, and he shook his head. "No, really, I insist."

Sam waited until the two of them had walked down the hall, each carrying several plastic bags, and then turned back to the older woman. "Do you have any idea where Greg might have gone? I mean, the police obviously won't tell us anything, but…."

"The police?" The woman sniffed. "According to _them_, there's no evidence of foul play, and he's a grown man with the right to wander off whenever he pleases. As though he'd just go off and leave me and Laura and Daryl alone, without so much as a goodbye! One of them had the nerve to suggest that he'd run off with some woman!" Another sniff.

"He never mentioned a girlfriend," Sam offered.

"Well, of course not, he didn't have one. Not that I didn't think that he should start dating again—my bridge partner has an absolutely _lovely_ daughter—but he wouldn't hear of it. Can you imagine?" She shook her head. "I suppose it's a bit different for you, being a man of the cloth, but a young man his age—Rose was a wonderful girl, please don't think I'm saying otherwise, but it has been seven years." She shook her head again.

"Mom, I'm sure they don't want to hear about that," Laura said, reentering the room with Dean behind her. "Are you sure none of you would like anything to drink?"

"You know, if it's not any trouble, a glass of water would be great," Sam said.

"Of course."

Dean once again trailed her out of the room, and Sam turned back to the older woman. "You didn't notice anything…strange…about the way Greg was acting before he disappeared, did you? You know, trouble at work, or maybe he was a bit on-edge about something…?"

"My heavens, no. In fact, he helped out with a bake sale at Daryl's school just that morning. Laura was supposed to go, but she hadn't been feeling well, and I just can't stand for very long—old bones, you know—so he took the morning off and took her place. That's why he was at work so late; he had paperwork that he hadn't finished during the day."

"Yes, he's very dedicated, we all saw that. Um…how late would you say he was there?"

"Well, he called about eight-thirty to say he was heading out—I remember the time because Daryl had just gone to bed, complaining all the way. You know how children are. Greg said he was going to stop by the grocery store and pick up some milk, and he wanted to know if we needed anything else. Now why would he do that if he was planning to run off, that's what I'd like to know. _Police_."

"When he called, he didn't mention maybe lights flickering or odd sounds, anything like that, did he? Or maybe you heard some kind of static on the line?"

"No, I don't think so, but why do you ask?"

Sam waved a hand. "Never mind, it was just a thought."

* * * * *

"Well, that was pretty much a waste of an evening," Dead said, pulling off his collar and flopping backwards onto the far bed of their motel room. "Unless you count Greg's granny hitting on Sam, anyway."

"Funny," Sam returned, pulling off his own collar and giving his brother a shove so he could sit down on the bed as well. "First of all, she was his mother, not his grandmother, and second of all, she wasn't hitting on me."

Dean reached over and patted Sam's hand in an obvious mimicry of the older woman at the first house they'd visited. "Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that. What is it with you and old ladies, anyway?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I guess we can check the Salvation Army building tomorrow. I'm still thinking that's our best lead—two guys who worked there missing, the retired teacher who volunteered there missing…."

"And several people who didn't have anything to do with it missing too," Dean pointed out.

"Didn't have anything to do with it that we know of," Sam returned, and then shrugged. "Hey, if you've got a better idea, I'm all ears. Where else do we need to hit tomorrow?"

"Uh…." Dean pulled a crumpled list out of his pocket. "The mechanic's family—as something other than priests, I think, seeing as they're Jewish—find someone who knew the bag lady, and then the parents of the kid who worked at McDonalds. Oh, and the cop's brother. After that, no idea." He looked over at Castiel. "What about you, Cas, you spot anything out of the ordinary on our little tour of the city? Demons, unlucky rabbits' feet, signs that say 'missing people, look here'?"

Castiel considered for a moment, sitting down on his own bed and leaning against the headboard. In general, the families of those missing had had very little of interest to say, but there was one thing that had struck him as rather unusual. "I'm not certain that it qualifies, but it's very likely that someone from the flower shop is a hoodoo practitioner."

"What?" Sam asked, finally managing to speak to him directly. "How do you know?"

"When the two of you were speaking to the woman at the desk, I examined the greenhouse. Several of the herbs growing along the back wall were decidedly inappropriate for well-wishing gifts."

"Assuming that whoever planted them actually knew what they were and didn't just like the smell or something," Sam returned.

"Maybe," Dean said after a minute, "And maybe hoodoo doesn't usually disappear people either, but it's the first definite—probably definite—sign of something supernatural going on that we've seen. I'd say that's worth another look, at least."


	16. Fair warning

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. I'm glad people liked the chipmunks…I came up with a couple different trios for Dean to use, but the chipmunks were by far my favorite._

* * * * *

"You are angry with me," Castiel observed. Dean was taking a shower, which gave him and Sam relative privacy in the small motel room.

"Give the guy a cookie."

"I do not want a cookie." Frankly, he wondered what this mortal obsession was with the things. "I want to know why you are angry at me."

Sam twisted to glare at him. "Uh, let's review. You threatened to send my _brother_ back to _Hell_. For the record, not a real good way to inspire fuzzy feelings."

"It was necessary to make him see reason."

"Bullshit." Sam shoved himself up off his bed and began to pace, as best he could in the limited space between the foot of the beds and the wall. "I know my brother, and God knows he can be a stubborn pain in the ass when he wants to be, but there is no way in hell—," he frowned and then shook his head and resumed speaking. "There's no way that you _needed_ to make that threat." Another few angry paces, and then he sank back down on the bed. "Look, you got Dean out of Hell when I couldn't. For that…for that I owe you way more than I'm ever going to be able to repay."

"I did not do it for you," Castiel interrupted.

"I know that, but it doesn't matter." Another, more vicious, shake of his head. "I mean, do you think any of those demons and…things…I talked to trying to get him out of there were doing it for my sake? The point is that you did it. But…."

"But?" Castiel prompted when Sam's eyes remained unfocused and he showed no sign of continuing.

"Do you know he has nightmares? I mean, full on screaming, crying, shaking-for-twenty-minutes-even-after-he's-woken-up nightmares, like nothing I've ever seen from him before. And we've seen some bad shit in our lives."

"I know about the nightmares," Castiel acknowledged, unsure about the turn the conversation had taken.

"Do you know that his two favorite techniques for dealing with them at the moment are drinking himself senseless before he goes to sleep and just not sleeping at all? He hasn't done that these past couple days, mostly because a lot of drinking on top of a concussion is a _really_ bad idea, and no matter what he might want there's a limit to the amount of time a human body can go without sleep. Especially when injured. I'm guessing he'll start again pretty soon, though, and then you'll really get the full experience."

Castiel couldn't dispute his assessment. And, in truth, Dean did have a great deal to have nightmares about.

"He won't talk about them either, which I don't think is helping matters any," Sam continued.

"Perhaps he is trying to spare you."

"Maybe. And maybe it's like he says, and he just can't explain. Either way, it's killing him by inches, and having someone seriously threaten him with an encore performance…." His glare was back in force. "Whatever happened down there, it hurt him bad enough as it is; the _last_ thing he needs is someone making it worse."

"I have heard him say that he's going back to Hell before," Castiel objected. "On more than one occasion, in fact. He did not seem harmed."

"Yeah, well, him joking about it is a little twisted, I'll grant, but it _is_ joking. Last I looked, he can't actually drag himself back down into the pit. You _could_ take him back. That's not a joke, it's cruel."

Castiel opened his mouth and then shut it again. In truth, he couldn't simply return Dean to Hell, despite what he'd threatened. For one, entering Hell was anything but a simple production, and for another, Father himself had commanded Dean's release. No matter how obstinate the mortal could be, countermanding that order was unthinkable.

"Look, just promise you won't do it again, all right?" Sam asked. "Swear on whatever it is angels swear on that you'll pick something else to throw at him the next time the two of you get into it. Threaten to block his porn sites for the rest of his natural life, or get him a personal visit from every church group within a hundred mile radius, or whatever. Just…not Hell."

"I cannot." He would use any means necessary to carry out God's will; he had no choice in the matter. Personally, he didn't think the threat had upset Dean as much as Sam seemed to think, but if he had misread the mortal and it had…well, it would not be the first time that an angel had struck fear into the hearts of men.

Sam sighed and stared at carpet at his feet for several minutes before raising his head to look back at Castiel. The glare was gone now, but somehow Castiel didn't find the blank look that had replaced it to be much of an improvement. "Cas—Castiel—I know you don't like me much, but believe it or not, I mostly do like you. The occasional dick-ish moment aside. And I owe you, even if I know damn well you didn't bring him back for me. So don't think I'm saying this just for fun or to be a jerk or whatever." His gaze hardened and his voice went cold. "Threaten my brother, try and take him back to Hell, and I'll do anything I have to to stop you. Anything."

There was no trace of the evil that Castiel had felt before, but he had no doubt that Sam was completely serious.

"It might be the world's shortest fight, and I might not be able to do much more than scratch your paint job, but whatever I can throw at you, I will," Sam continued in the same tone. "He shouldn't have been there in the first place, and he definitely doesn't deserve to go back."

Castiel didn't respond. He wasn't entirely certain that there _was _a response to be made to that flat statement.

"Anyway, just...well, fair warning." Sam's voice and expression had returned to normal, and after a moment he stood again and grabbed his wallet and a room key off the nightstand between the two beds. "I'm going to go get some supplies. I'll be back in a couple hours."

The motel room door made a clicking noise as it shut behind Sam, relocking itself automatically, and for a moment Castiel wondered if he should have let the boy leave. Although, realistically, he doubted that he could have stopped him. Even if he had his angelic powers, Castiel wasn't as sure as Sam seemed to be about what the outcome of a fight between them would be, potential paint scratches aside. He wasn't entirely sure why Sam would think he was painted, but it didn't really matter. There was _power_ in the younger Winchester—dark power, but power all the same—and if he continued to exercise it, against all sense and advice, it would continue to grow. Whether he would become strong enough to seriously challenge an angel Castiel had no idea, but he had no doubts about the boy's ability to inflict damage.

"Where'd Sammy go?" Dean asked, and Castiel turned to find him standing in the bathroom door in his nightclothes, roughing his hair with a towel to remove the excess moisture.

"To get supplies."

"Supplies? What supplies are we mis—" Dean's frown changed abruptly into a roll of his eyes. "Oh, _don't_ tell me he's still pissed at me for not telling him about what you said before. I swear he can sulk better than anyone else I've ever met."

Castiel had had no intention of telling him anything of the sort, so he remained silent.

"Or is he still mad at you? I told him it was my fault."

"I believe that that is settled." Or as settled as it was likely to get, anyway.

Dean opened his mouth and then shut it again, crossing the room to look out the window. Apparently Sam was already out of sight, because he sighed and turned back to face Castiel. "At least he didn't take the car so he probably isn't planning on going far." He didn't look entirely convinced, but after a minute he shook his head. "Well, he's a big boy. And this way I can actually have my half of the bed for awhile without Sasquatch sprawling out all over the place. You'd think _one_ of these places would have a cot that's more than five feet long." He tossed the towel over the back of the desk chair before stretching out the second bed and grabbing for the television remote. "Maybe there's a game on or something."

It was late when Sam finally returned; Dean was already asleep, and Castiel was on the verge of slumber as well. Even so, he couldn't help reaching out—as best he could with his senses damped by the manacles, anyway—trying to determine whether there was any trace of evil on Sam. He couldn't sense anything, but the attempt brought him back to full awareness, and after a few minutes he decided that there was no point in lying in the motel room staring up at the ceiling.


	17. I believe that he thought I was homeless

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

* * * * *

Castiel considered the large stone building in front of him. St. Virgil's, according to the sign in the front. There was a light coming from one of the small windows in the back, but the church proper appeared to be unoccupied. After a moment, he pulled open the main door and went in. If nothing else, it would be warmer…clearly the long-sleeved shirt and pants he'd put on to sleep in were insufficient for the current outdoor temperature, but since weather wasn't something that angels normally concerned themselves with, he hadn't thought to bring Dean's spare jacket when he'd left the motel. He could go back—he'd only walked about two blocks—but he didn't want to just yet.

Moonlight streaming in through the stained glass illuminated the interior tolerably well, and he took a seat in one of the back pews and stared up at the altar. It was peaceful here, at least, although the silence didn't do much to still his mind. Between the near-insanity of day-to-day life in this mortal world, a war between the forces of Heaven and Hell that wasn't going well, a mortal with a destiny who refused to believe, another mortal demon-touched though he generally didn't act it, and questions for which Castiel had no answer…. He shook his head. So many questions; about Father, about his own existence, about _choices_.

He shook his head again. Even turning his mind to more practical matters, things he did understand, didn't help to settle him. There was no way to tell how the war was going—badly, most likely, but he didn't know what battles his siblings were fighting or how many more seals had been broken. He didn't even if anyone in the garrison had noted his absence. The Marked manacles prevented him from contacting his siblings, but whether they had also felt the separation and assumed he'd died with his brothers or simply thought he was out of contact on a mission, it was impossible to know. It hadn't been much more than an eye blink since he'd been bound, at least in the way he and his siblings accounted for time; unless and until someone actually called him and he didn't answer or went looking for him and couldn't find him…. His body shivered suddenly, and he crossed his arms over his chest. It wasn't much warmer in here than it had been outside.

He was still trying to organize his thoughts when a door opened to the left of the altar and a man in clerical robes and a long jacket stepped through carrying a stack of books. He stopped long enough to put one on the altar and then began to distribute the rest among the pews.

Castiel remained where he was, silent and still, and the priest got within half a dozen rows of pews before noticing that he wasn't alone. At which point he started in surprise and dropped the remaining stack of books.

"Hello," Castiel greeted.

"Ah…hello." The priest shook his head. "This seems to be the day for late-night visitors." For a minute silence drew out between them, and then he seemed to relax slightly, bending down to collect the books he'd dropped. "I don't think I've seen you around here before."

"No."

He straightened with his stack of books tucked under one arm, offering his other hand. "I'm Father Matthew."

"Castiel." He uncrossed his arms and shook the proffered hand, glad that the sleeves of the shirt were long enough to conceal the bands around his wrists as the priest's eyes lingered for a long moment on the one around his throat. He hadn't considered how visible it was in the low-collared shirt when he'd left the motel, especially since the metal reflected moonlight.

"It's nice to meet you. That's an unusual name; I can't say I know too many people named after the angel of…hm, Thursday, I believe it is."

"Yes." It would not be prudent, of course, to point out that he _was_ the Angel of Thursday. He shivered again and then tried to still the motion.

The priest frowned. "You know, there's a shelter just next door…."

"I do not need shelter." He would go back to the motel when he'd settled his mind. He frowned slightly—even if he had needed it, wouldn't the walls and ceiling of the church suffice?—but there was no reason to pursue the matter. "I simply wished to think."

"Ah. Well," Father Matthew turned, setting the books down on the seat of one of the pews and gesturing for Castiel to follow, "you know, I haven't gotten around to sorting through the donation box this week, but I could have sworn…." He turned into one of the side rooms, flipping on bright a light that made Castiel shield his eyes. "Oops, sorry about that." He reached down into a cardboard box containing a pile of clothing, pulling out something long and light-colored and holding it out to Castiel. "Here. Give that a try."

It was a coat, Castiel recognized as he lowered his hand, very similar to the one that he had lost in the fight with the demons. It was in slightly worse shape than his had been in—well, worse shape than his had been in before the demons had ripped it off him piece by piece, anyway—and he frowned. "That is unnecessary."

"Well, you obviously don't have a coat with you, so why don't you take it now and then you can return it later? The donation box is always here."

That seemed reasonable, and as he still hadn't stopped shivering, Castiel accepted it with a nod of thanks.

"You said you came here to think?" Father Matthew asked. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

"Yes. And no."

"Are you sure? Sometimes it helps to have someone to act as a sounding board when you're trying to sort things out, and anything we discuss, I'm bound by my oaths to keep confidential."

Castiel considered. "Do you ever have…questions?"

"Questions?"

"About—" he cut himself off before he could say 'Father'. "About God."

"Sometimes, yes. I think it's natural, in the world we live in."

Castiel frowned for a moment and then shook his head. "No." Or perhaps it was for a mortal, but not for one of his kind. "I—"

A shrill ring from the priest's robes interrupted him, and Father Matthew held up his hand to pause Castiel, reaching into his robes and pulling out a small phone. "St. Virgil's, Father Matthew speaking. All right, I'll be right there." He put the phone away and looked back at Castiel. "I'm sorry, but I have to get to the hospital. The main hall is always open—not a lot of money to be made on black-market missalettes—so you're welcome to stay as long as you'd like. Although I really do recommend the homeless shelter next door if you're looking for a place to sleep. There are good people over there, and these old stone buildings just don't hold heat."

* * * * *

Castiel blinked, trying to orient himself. Light met his eyes from several different angles; his ear, where it had been pressed against something hard, ached; and he felt decidedly chilled.

He sat up slowly, identifying St. Virgil's. Father Matthew had locked the side rooms when he'd left last night, but Castiel had resumed his seat in the main hall in another attempt to sort out his confusion. Another unsuccessful attempt, as it happened, and apparently he'd fallen asleep trying to do so.

He shook his head and stood, adjusting the coat the priest had given him. Judging by the light streaming in through the windows, Sam and Dean were probably already awake and ready to start the day. He should get back to the motel.

Sounds of an argument met his ears when he arrived, audible even through the door. A door for which he had no key, he realized a moment later. This was the first time he'd left a motel without one of the Winchesters, and, like weather, keys weren't something to which angels normally paid a great deal of attention. He knocked lightly, and then again, harder, to be heard over the shouting.

The door swung open a moment later, and he found both Winchesters glaring at him.

"Cas, are you _insane_?" Dean demanded.

"Not to my knowledge, no."

Sam gripped his forehead so hard that his knuckles turned white, and Dean made several anatomically impossible suggestions under his breath.

"Then could you _please_ not pull any more disappearing acts in the middle of the city where people are disappearing for real?" Sam finally asked, his voice oddly tight.

"I didn't disappear."

"We went to sleep, and you were here," Dean said. "We woke up, and you were gone. You didn't take a key, you didn't take a coa—hey, how did you get your coat back? Is your angel mojo back too?"

Castiel wasn't entirely certain what 'mojo' was, but he was fairly confident in replying in the negative. "No. And the coat is not mine; it was given to me by a priest." He considered Father Matthew's repeated suggestion of a shelter. "I believe that he thought I was homeless."

"Uh…right," Dean said, exchanging glances with his brother. "Look just don't go wandering off again without leaving a note or something, all right? No offense, but you aren't exactly in a position to smite anybody if they start giving you trouble. You already just about got your ass kicked in a bar fight."

After a moment of consideration, Castiel nodded. It seemed a reasonable precaution. Unbound, he had strength and speed far beyond what any mortal could match, and he could call upon his siblings for help, but that wasn't an option at the moment.

"You know, I've got a better idea," Sam said suddenly, turning back into the motel room long enough to grab the keys to the car. "Cas, why don't you get changed, and the two of you can go get breakfast and print up some up IDs without me. I'll meet you back here in an hour."

"Uh…okay," Dean agreed. "But where are you going?"

"To get him a cell."

Castiel frowned as Sam reached back inside to grab his own jacket and then hurried past him towards the car. "I am a warrior of God. I will not be locked away while the two of you go about searching for your friend."


	18. Agent Nash

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. For those who are worried; relax, the story _is _going somewhere. For me, this is an experimental story where I'm deliberately trying to keep each chapter under 2000 words, and since I prefer to keep out-and-out coincidence to a minimum in all my stories, setting things up takes a few more postings than it would if I was doing 3000+ word chapters. The last couple postings (minus the bar fight, which was mostly for amusement) have been that setup…clues will start making sense shortly._

* * * * *

"Agents Crosby, Stills, and Nash?" Sam demanded as the three of them left the Salvation Army. "Are you nuts? I mean, the Chipmunks were bad enough." He shook his head. "What's next, Huey, Dewey, and Louie?"

Dean grinned. "Hey, that's a good one."

"Next time _I_ make the IDs." Sam muttered, continuing down the street towards the car. "Did you guys find out anything useful?"

Dean shook his head. "Not much, aside from the fact that both guys left work late on the nights they disappeared, and apparently one of them, Mills, hit the sauce a little hard. You find anything inter—damn, that's hideous."

It was, Castiel decided, examining the stone monstrosity Dean indicated in the window of a store advertising buying, selling, and trading.

"Do they actually think someone's going to pay for that?"

Sam shrugged. "No accounting for taste. And no, I didn't see anything interesting."

Sam had been looking around the Salvation Army building while Castiel and Dean had interviewed the director about the missing men who had worked there. Or Dean had interviewed the director and Castiel had sat quietly, anyway. Dean had insisted that posing as an FBI agent was 'way less damning' than posing as a priest, but Castiel hadn't found the argument entirely convincing.

"The EMF meter didn't make a sound," Sam continued. "I didn't get to look _everywhere_, not with my personal tour guide following me around, but…."

"You get her phone number?"

"Oh, come on, she was like fifty."

Dean snickered, unlocking the doors of the car and climbing into the driver's seat. "Yeah, well, that seems to be your type. I guess as long as we're stuck in these monkey suits, we should head for the mechanic's family. Maybe the ex-cop's brother, too...I'd say the florist's but we were just there as priests so we'd better not push it."

"The mechanic's family_ after_ we stop back at the copy shop and change one of our names," Sam insisted.

"Killjoy." But Dean turned the car back toward the motel; the shop he had used to make their identification cards this morning was just a few blocks away from it.

It wasn't long until they were back on a recognizable street; they weren't staying the immediate neighborhood where the disappearances had been happening, but they weren't staying far from it, either. Castiel frowned as they passed St. Virgil's. There was a police car parked on the street outside, and a man in uniform speaking to a young man and woman while a small crowd looked on. "What's happening?"

"What?" Dean asked, his focus on the traffic ahead.

"At the church. What's happening?"

Dean craned his neck to look around Castiel. "I don't know. You two want to check it out while I go become Agent Young?"

"Dude, seriously," Sam said.

Dean had sounded entirely serious to Castiel, but he was grinning as he stopped the car long enough to let Castiel and Sam climb out. "Have fun now."

Castiel ignored the muttered threat Sam directed at his brother and followed him as he circled around and approached the crowd from the side rather than going directly to the authority figure.

"What's happening?" Sam asked an older man standing on the edge of the group.

"Father Matthew is missing."

"Who?"

"One of the priests. He's been here for…oh, going on twenty years, now, I'd say. From what I heard the police saying, he was called to the hospital last night but never got there, and then he wasn't here for a marriage preparation class this morning either. That's not like him at all."

"Father Matthew?" Castiel asked. "But I saw him last—"

Sam's hand clamped down painfully on his shoulder before he could finish. "Last Sunday at Mass."

He opened his mouth to object—he hadn't _been_ here last Sunday for Mass—but Sam's hand tightened further as he continued questioning the man. "Do they have any idea where he might have gone? I mean, maybe he was in an accident or something."

"Maybe, but you'd think then he'd be _at_ the hospital. I just don't understand." The man shook his head.

Sam nodded and pulled Castiel away.

"_Don't_ do that again," Castiel growled as Sam finally released his shoulder, several yards back from the crowd. His shoulder ached where Sam's fingers had been digging in, and he rubbed it lightly.

"Sorry, but if people find out that you were one of the last, if not _the_ last, person to see this guy, the police are going to want to talk to you, and then we're going to get a whole lot of questions that we don't want to answer. That we _can't_ answer, unless you seriously want to try convincing them that you were born 2000 years ago and are employed as an Angel of the Lord."

Well, he hadn't been born, but Castiel had to admit that his circumstances would be slightly difficult to explain if any of anyone chose to inquire. Still…. "Could we not have used information about my shell?"

Sam considered. "Well, yeah, I guess, but...just trust me, cops just aren't good news in our line of work. Dean and I were both wanted by the FBI for awhile—we still would be, if we weren't presumed dead—and it wasn't pretty."

"Then what do we do?"

"Follow me."

It wouldn't have occurred to Castiel to do anything else, and he trailed Sam as he circled back around the crowd of onlookers, this time heading directly towards a second officer who was coming out the front door of the church.

"Gentlemen, you'll have to stay back," he said.

"Agent Stills, FBI," Sam said, flipping his badge open and shut in one easy motion as he had back at the Salvation Army. "My partner, Agent Nash." The man's eyes narrowed, and Sam made a throwaway gesture. "Yes, we know; and no, the rest of the band isn't coming."

"What does the FBI want with a missing priest?" the officer asked.

"Missing priest?" Sam shook his head. "Actually, we're in town investigating a potential counterfeiting ring, but we saw the commotion when we were passing by and just stopped to see if we could help."

"No, I don't think so. Local priest," he gestured back at the church, "disappeared last night, but I just got a call that the church van is in the parking lot at the hospital, so we're thinking a possible mugging. Mercy isn't in the best neighborhood."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Mercy Hospital?"

"Yeah, you know it?"

"I've heard the name." Sam glanced at Castiel, who dipped his head slightly. He recognized the name as well. After a quick survey of the church, Sam turned back to the officer. "Well, if you've got everything under control, we'll just get out of your way, then."

The officer nodded, and Castiel followed Sam as he once again circled back around the crowd. This time he went towards the street, though, presumably to be ready when Dean came to collect them. After a quick glance around, he turned to Castiel. "All right, you said you saw the priest last night?"

"Yes."

"Did you notice anything unusual about him? I mean, was he acting odd at all?"

It was the same question they had been asking everyone who had known the missing people, and, like the rest of them, Castiel shook his head and responded in the negative. "I don't believe so." Of course, he wasn't certain that he was entirely qualified to judge 'odd' in terms of mortal behavior, but nothing about the priest had seemed unusual to him. "I startled him at first, but we were beginning to talk when he got a call and said he had to go to the hospital. And then he left."

"He didn't act nervous after he got the phone call or anything like that?"

"No."

"Damn." Sam rubbed his forehead.

Dean pulled up beside them a moment later and waited for them to climb back into the car. "So, what's the story?"

"Another missing person—the priest Cas met last night. Police say they found his car in the parking lot of the hospital. Mercy Hospital."

"That's the one where the nurse…."

"Yeah."

"Huh. Next stop, Mercy Hospital." Dean swung the car back into traffic. "Get anything else out of them?"

Sam snorted. "They're thinking it's probably a mugging."

"Figures."

Dean was pulling into an unoccupied parking space near where a police car sat beside a van labeled 'St. Virgil's' when Sam slapped Castiel's seat and pointed sharply. "Check it out. It's not on the map, but I bet that alley leads right between the buildings to the Salvation Army."


	19. Let's check out that hideous thing

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

* * * * *

Dean and Sam exchanged glances as they got out of the car, and then Sam straightened his tie and walked towards the police car while Dean pulled the EMF detector and a flashlight out of the car and turned towards the alley. "Cas, you're with me," Dean said.

That suited Castiel perfectly well, and he fell into step beside Dean. "What are we looking for?"

"Any sign of anything. The priest disappeared less than twenty-four hours ago; it's our best lead so far. Here, take this." Dean handed him the EMF detector and turned on his flashlight, moving it from side to side to examine the rubble on either side of the narrow alley. "What was he wearing when you saw him?"

"Clerical robes." What did Dean think a priest would be wearing? "And a jacket."

"What kind of jacket?"

Castiel shook his head. He had neither knowledge nor interest in clothing brands.

"Long, short, give me something, here."

"Long; more like mine than yours. Dark brown. You think that he would have come down this alley for some reason?" It had seemed to him that the priest had been in a hurry to get to the hospital, but perhaps he had been mistaken.

"I don't know, but we aren't real big on coincidence, and four people disappearing right around here is really pushing it." Dean shoved a crate sideways, but aside from a rat that skittered away there was nothing to see. "What time did you see him?"

"I left after you and Sam had gone to sleep—"

"Yeah, we know _that_ part. I mean, '911, what's your emergency?' 'Well, uh, I seemed to have misplaced my angel….'"

Castiel considered for a moment and then decided to ignore Dean's muttered interruption and apparent conversation with no one. "Eleven-thirty, perhaps, or twelve." It wasn't as though he wore a watch.

"Huh." Dean's glare faded and he turned, shifting the flashlight to examine a rusted-shut door on the opposite wall. "So do you have any new ideas about what's disappearing people? I mean, changelings target mostly children and mothers and there's too many guys disappearing for that. I guess with that UFO sighting we shouldn't rule _out_ the Trickster, but…." He shook his head. "I don't know, he mostly went after jerks, and if that priest is going around giving out coats he can't be _that_ bad. Besides, reusing the same trick is kind of lame."

"You no longer believe it's a ghost?" Castiel's eyes followed the beam of the flashlight, frowning as it paused on the edge of another crate. "Is that blood?"

Dean rubbed at it with his thumb. "Think it's just old paint. And I'm not ruling ghosts _out_, but they have rules. They just can't go changing haunts because they feel like it, so unless the nurse and the priest and the rest of them all wandered into the Salvation Army, it doesn't seem right. Plus Sam should have got something on EMF." He looked down at the object Castiel held, still silent. "Doesn't exactly match a demon MO either."

Castiel frowned at him, and after a minute, Dean shrugged.

"MO, you know, an acronym? Means mode of operation." He frowned. "And something else in Latin, I think; Sam would know for sure. Either way, I'm just saying that this isn't the way demons usually operate. I mean, why get rid of those particular people? It's not like it's accomplishing anything, or at least not anything obvious."

"Ah." That was true enough, and Castiel thought—although he wasn't entirely certain—that, like he could sense evil on Sam when he was using his powers, he would be able to tell if a demon was close. He tried to remember whether or not he could in the warehouse, but given that he'd _known_ all of the people there were possessed, and he'd been rather busy attempting to avoid being sacrificed at the time, it was difficult to say.

As Sam had suspected, the alley did open onto the same street as the Salvation Army, but that building turned out to be a bit further north. "That says 'Grocers'," Castiel observed, indicating a sign on the building immediately across from the alley.

"Good one, Cas; now try the green sign beside it."

Castiel ignored Dean's tone. "It says 'Beer and Wine'." Though what that had to do with anything, he wasn't sure. "Mr. Alvarado's mother said he was going to stop at the grocery store for milk on his way home."

Dean opened his mouth and then shut it again as he studied the street they were facing. "I missed that; I was talking to his sister. Didn't get much out of her. Come on, let's check it out." He turned off his flashlight and stuck it in his pocket, taking the EMF detector back from Castiel.

Two teenagers lounging behind the counter stared at them when they entered the grocery store, but when Castiel stared back, they both seemed to find reason to look elsewhere.

Dean snickered quietly and then waved at Castiel to stay where he was before making a quick circuit of the store and then returning to the front. "Hey, guys, need some info." He flipped his badge open and shut.

One of the teenagers made a grunt that might have been assent.

"You get a priest in here last night, maybe around midnight?"

"Nah."

"You sure? Were you working?"

"We close at ten." He waved a hand at a faded sign.

Dean nodded. "Okay, well, do any of the other stores around here stay open late?" Two shrugs, and he nodded again. "Thanks for your help."

"They did not help," Castiel pointed out as the two of them exited.

"No, but I didn't really think that they would. I didn't get any EMF either. Let's check out the liquor store; the guy at the Salvation Army did say Mr. Mills had a bit of a drinking problem. Could be a connection there, maybe." But the liquor store yielded similar results, and when the two of them came back into the street, Dean sighed. "I really wish we had something better to go on than 'they disappeared in this area.' Hell, we could be dealing with a bunch of crazies like the Benders for all we know. Granted that there's not a lot of forest around here, but…."

"Should we continue to check the other shops?" Castiel asked, debating whether or not he wanted to know what a Bender was. It didn't sound pleasant.

"Suppose it can't hurt. Sammy'll call when he finishes with the cops." He grinned suddenly. "Hey, come on, let's check out that hideous…thing…in the pawn shop."

"Thing?"

"Yeah." He gestured at one of the windows across the street, indicating the stone monstrosity they'd noticed leaving the Salvation Army. "That thing."

Castiel shrugged and matched his pace as they crossed the street.

The sign said 'open,' but when Dean pushed on the door, it didn't budge. "Huh." He shoved again, with the same result. "Closed at one in the afternoon? Weird. Do you see another way in?"

Castiel shook his head. According to the sign, it was supposed to be open from nine to nine on Saturdays, but…. "Perhaps it has gone out of business."

"Could be; the economy is definitely going to crap at the moment." Dean shook his head, glancing up and down the street, and then his phone rang and he passed the EMF detector to Castiel. "Can you sweep the front of the store?"

Castiel stared at the sidewalk and then at the metal object in his hands. He was fairly certain that it wasn't appropriate for sweeping, and he had no idea why Dean would want such a thing done.

"What?" Dean frowned at him and then shook his head as his phone rang again. "Just," he waved a hand, "you know, walk back and forth." The phone rang a third time, and he hit a button put it to his ear. "Yeah, Sam, I'm here. Anything?"

Castiel was perhaps a dozen steps from Dean when the object in his hand let out a sharp crackle, becoming hot in his hand, and then, just as quickly, went silent.


	20. Agent Mulder's younger brothers

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

_Okay, so _Jump the Shark_ used the creature-of-the-week that was supposed to appear in this story (well, minus Adam, but including the blood-draining bit). I thought about going ahead and posting as it was anyway but decided to revamp for one of my second-choice creatures. I'll be posting a little slower than usual as I get chapters redone/polished._

* * * * *

Castiel considered the object and then looked up to examine his immediate surroundings, only to step back, startled. An old man, short and decidedly thin, was staring through the window at him, one hand gripping a protrusion on the stone statue.

"Cas, what was that?" Dean asked, and then, into his phone, "Yeah, we're just taking a look around the neighborhood. You go ahead and check out the hospital." He put his phone away and moved to stand by Castiel, doing his own step to the side as he saw the man. "_Creepy_," he muttered under his breath, and then waved to the man. "Dude, you know your store is locked?" He gestured at the door.

The man shifted his stare to Dean for a moment and then turned and walked away.

"Well, if they aren't out of business yet, they're going to be soon with that kind of service. What happened to the EMF detector?"

"It crackled, and then got very hot."

"Hot?" Dean took it and flipped it over, opening a panel on the underside. "Damn, it almost looks like it's shorted. What would cause…?" He looked in the direction the man had gone. "Maybe we were wrong about the location of the disappearances."

"You believe that he was a ghost?" There had been something…odd…about the man, Castiel had thought, but nothing that he could specifically identify. Nothing aside from behavior that seemed inappropriate for a shopkeeper, anyway.

Dean shook his head. "He looked pretty solid to me—and besides, ghosts don't usually _walk_ away—but we've gotten EMF hits off demons before."

"I do not believe that he was possessed."

"You can tell that just by looking at him? His eyes looked normal, and I didn't see any black smoke hanging around."

Castiel frowned and then shook his head. "Outward appearances are irrelevant." Or at least they were at the moment, although when his senses weren't damped the possessed did have a shadow overlaying their human faces. Still, appearance wasn't his primary means of identifying them. "Demons have a particular…_feel_. My senses are far less than they should be, but…." He shook his head. "I do not believe that I am mistaken."

"Huh." Dean stared through the store window for a minute and then mimicked his headshake. "Well, _something_ happened to our EMF detector. I'd say we've got a lead." He pulled his phone back out and hit a button before putting it to his ear. "Sam? I think we might have something." There was a moment of silence and then he frowned. "You're kidding, right?" A pause. "No, stay there and we'll head that way."

"Sam found something as well?" Castiel asked as Dean put the phone away.

"Yeah, weirdness at the hospital. Didn't say what; I'm guessing there were probably too many people around."

Castiel kept a wary eye on the potentially-dangerous building as he and Dean made their way back down the alley towards the hospital, and noted that Dean did the same, but they reached the hospital without incident.

Sam was standing inside the entrance, ostensibly paging through a magazine, and Dean and Castiel made their way around a small group of people to join him. "What's up?" Dean asked.

Sam tossed the magazine into a bin containing several others and nodded to the front desk. "Check out the flower arrangement."

"Uh, yeah, it's lovely, Sammy," Dean said after a quick glance at a wreath of brightly-colored flowers by the front desk.

"No, dude, _look_ at it."

Castiel frowned, stepping closer and identifying several of the herbs that he'd seen in the greenhouse they'd visited the day before. As well as a five-spot patterned on the bow. "Hoodoo," he pronounced, ignoring the look the woman at the front desk gave him.

"You think somebody's working—" Dean stopped abruptly several other people around them turned to look at him, lowering his voice, "working hoodoo at a _hospital_?"

"It sure looks like it," Sam said with a nod, voice equally low. "Gives the hospital a connection with that florist shop, at least. I checked, and they're the ones who delivered the flowers. Apparently they just started donating arrangements about a month ago. What did you find?"

"Our EMF detector blew out in front of the pawn shop. The one down the street from the Salvation Army."

"Damn." Sam ran a hand through his hair. "You know, if something's going to be haunted…well, a pawn shop is probably a pretty good place to start looking. Didn't really think about it before, but they've probably got all kinds of crap in there."

Dean nodded slightly. "If nothing else, we should talk to that weird guy who was there. Maybe he's keeping his shop closed for a reason."

"You saw a man in the shop when the EMF detector blew? I'm assuming he wasn't a ghost…was he possessed, maybe?"

"Cas doesn't think so. Says he can feel demons."

Sam looked at Castiel for a long moment and then shook his head slightly. "Okay, fair enough. I think we should talk to whoever's putting the flower arrangements together too, though. We've seen hoodoo used to ward off spirits before…maybe somebody knows something that we don't."

"Wouldn't take much," Dean muttered. "At least the arrangement looks pretty new, so it shouldn't be the woman who disappeared that dropped it off. Why don't you two head back there while I fix our EMF detector and see if I can figure out who owns the pawn shop? In fact, drop me off at city hall and I'll try and get a home address too. If something in that place is haunted, it'd be easier to catch him at home, and if he was possessed at any point, hopefully he'd remember it."

"And if it turns out that he still _is_ possessed we can do something about it," Sam added. Dean nodded, although he didn't look entirely happy about it, and the two of them turned back for the exit with Castiel trailing behind. Given a choice between the two, Castiel would have preferred to accompany Dean, but as they hadn't requested his opinion he would do as he'd been asked.

* * * * *

"I'm not sure how I can help you gentlemen. What's so interesting about a few flower arrangements?" The assistant manager of the florist shop—Maria, according to her nametag—smoothed her skirt absently, splitting her gaze between the two of them.

"Because they contain herbs most commonly associated with hoodoo, arranged in a manner also consistent with such a practice," Castiel replied. It seemed perfectly obvious to him.

Maria's face went blank, and Sam made a choking noise.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Maria said after a moment.

Sam shook his head. "I'm fairly certain you _do_, actually. Please excuse my colleague's lack of…sensitivity, but we really need to talk to you. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?"

"Why would a couple of priests be interested in folklore?" she asked, making no move to leave the public area of the shop.

"We aren't your typical priests. Please, it's important."

She stared for a moment longer and then gestured for the two of them to follow her. The office at the back of the shop was small and windowless—probably why it didn't contain more plants—and she perched on the edges of the desk. "So?"

"We're not really priests," Sam said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out his badge. "We're FBI, investigating some of the disappearances that have been happening around the hospital. We noticed the flower arrangement you put together and were…interested."

"So the _FBI_ is interested in folklore? The priest story was more believable—I mean, who are you two supposed to be, Agent Mulder's younger brothers?"

"The bureau doesn't subscribe to the occult in any form; however, we are well aware that there are those who do. Given that these arrangements are appearing in a neighborhood under investigation for suspicious disappearances…." He made an open-handed gesture. "Perhaps you've seen or heard something that leads you to believe some sort of protection is necessary?"

Maria sighed. "Look, it's not what you think. My mother has Alzheimer's. About a month and a half ago we had to check her into the hospital's long-term care facility."

Castiel frowned at the apparent non-sequitur, and Sam looked puzzled as well.

"The hoodoo?" Sam prompted when she showed no signs of continuing.

She shook her head. "Maybe a week or two after we checked her in, my older brother and I were visiting and she started raving about little red men and needing protection. I don't know how much you know about Alzheimer's, but patients in later stages tend to get confused about where and when they are. Mom grew up in the bayou before moving up here with my father a few years before I was born…when my brothers and I were little, she was always telling us stories about spirits and warding. Even showed us how to put the protections together." She shook her head again. "She always kept pots at the doors and intersections in the house, but we just thought it was a fun excuse to yell and play in the dirt."

"And now?"

"Hoodoo is folklore, gentlemen; I'm not naïve enough to believe otherwise. But when she started with the chants and stuff again, I thought bringing her a few of the pots would calm her down, and since Karen—the owner—didn't have a problem with me putting a few planters with different sorts of greenery in among the flowers, I've just kept the supplies here."

"Why are the flowers in the lobby instead of her room?" Castiel asked.

"Oh, the big arrangement at the front desk? That was Karen's idea…as long as we were already delivering flowers there regularly, she thought it would be good advertising."

"Did it work?" Sam asked.

"I suppose. We've gotten a few more orders than usual for this time of year."

"No, I mean to calm your mother down."

Maria shrugged. "As much as anything does, these days. Now, if that answers all of your questions, I should probably get back to the front."

"What about the woman who disappeared from here, did she have any of your arrangements with her?"

"She did, but as I understand, she never got to the hospital."

"All, right, thank you for your time. Oh, uh, one more question—what's your mother's name?"

* * * * *

Castiel followed Sam into a brightly lit hospital room. A hospital room with a window overlooking the parking lot where the priest's van had been found, coincidentally enough. Two planters by the door held much more obvious hoodoo arrangements than the flowers wreath at the front desk had, and there was a woman with grey hair sitting in a wheelchair by the window.

"Ma'am?" Sam asked quietly, moving to stand against the wall where she could see him. Castiel followed. "Hello, ma'am, I'm Father—"

"That's not yours!" she announced loudly, stabbing a finger at Castiel.


	21. Fire escape

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

_Don't worry about rereading chapters for change-in-creature details (although of course if you feel like rereading, go right ahead)…fortunately Jump the Shark aired before any of the creatures actually showed up, so it's only the later chapters still sitting on my hard drive that need revamping._

* * * * *

Castiel froze. So far no one had shown any indication that they knew that this body was not his own, but—

"You stole that from my Jimmy!"

"Uh, Cas, please tell me you aren't…inhabiting…anyone named Jimmy," Sam requested quietly, his jaw tight.

"I am not inhabiting anyone named Jimmy." The man's name was James.

"Oh, good." Sam turned his attention back to the woman. "No, ma'am, I'm afraid you're mistaken. Um, I'm Father Simon and this is Father Theodore. We'd like to talk to you for a few minutes."

"Thief," she muttered under her breath, still glaring at Castiel. "Give it _back_."

"Ma'am, we wanted to ask you about something that you might have seen outside your window," Sam pressed.

"Don't you know stealing is wrong?"

"Yes," Castiel agreed.

"Little red men, your daughter said you called them," Sam continued, directing a quick glare at Castiel. "Do you remember that?"

Her expression changed as she turned to look up at him. "Do you know my mother?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't. We met your daught—"

She shifted in her chair more quickly than Castiel expected, stabbing a finger in his direction. "She wouldn't _like_ you."

Sam rubbed his forehead and looked over at Castiel. "You know, Cas, why don't I do this one by myself? You can go call D—Father Alvin—and let him know where we are. If he's finished, we can swing by and pick him up when we're done here."

One crabbed hand reached for him, and Castiel stepped back out of range hurriedly. "Yes. I will do that."

After a quick look around to confirm that the hallway in this portion of the hospital was deserted, he pulled out the phone that Sam had acquired for him. It had far fewer buttons than either of the boys' phones, and Dean had shown him something called 'speed dial'…. He hit what he thought was the appropriate sequence of buttons and was rewarded by an image of Dean's face on the screen and a short sequence of beeps. He put the device to his ear.

"Hey, Cas, what's up?" Dean asked a moment later. "Is Sam okay?"

Castiel recalled Dean using the same phrase when speaking to his brother and decided that he wasn't actually asking about the ceiling. "Sam is fine. He is speaking to the mother of the woman who created the hoodoo arrangements. He wanted me to call and tell you where we were."

"Okay." There was silence for a minute, and then, "So where are you?"

"At the hospital. Sam said we could pick you up when we finished."

"Don't bother; I'll just catch a cab and come to you. Hey, if Sam's doing the interview, why don't you get the car keys from him and meet me in the parking lot? I'd like to finish checking out the other stores around the pawn shop, and two sets of eyes are better than one."

Castiel re-entered the room, staying out of range of the woman. She ignored him—in fact she seemed to be ignoring Sam as well—speaking rapidly about some sort of party. From the expression on Sam's face, he wasn't finding the conversation particularly useful.

"Dean is going to come here," Castiel said. "He wanted me to get the car keys from you."

"Oh. All right." Sam turned away from the woman—still wrapped up in her story—for a moment, digging around in his pocket and tossing a metal object in Castiel's direction. "Can you find your way out?"

"Yes." He had seen two signs labeled 'exit' when he was speaking to Dean. Of course, neither of them had pointed in the direction that he and Sam had come in from, but it made sense that there would be multiple ways out.

* * * * *

"Cas, over here!" Dean yelled, waving a hand.

Castiel hurried down the last flight of stairs and went to join him. It had taken far longer to reach the ground than he had expected.

"Dude, why were you on the fire escape?" Dean asked, accepting the key Castiel offered and turning towards the car.

"Fire escape?" Castiel matched his pace easily. "There was no fire."

"Yeah, I noticed. Why were you on those stairs?" He pointed at the metal staircase on the side of the building.

"The door at the top was labeled 'exit'."

Dean turned to stare at him for a moment and then shook his head. "It didn't happen to have the word 'emergency' anywhere in front of 'exit', did it?"

"Yes." He still failed to see why anyone would attempt to forbid people to leave the hospital unless there was an emergency, but the door had made a rather loud noise when he had opened it. "Should I have used a different door?"

"Uh, yeah. Look, just…next time try and come out the same way you went in, all right? I know you aren't a real fan of the whole using-the-door thing, but it'll make your life much easier." He popped open the trunk of the car, and after a quick glance around, tucked a knife into his boot and checked the gun in his waistband.

"You think we'll be attacked?" Castiel asked.

"Just in case. I couldn't find out much of anything about the owners of the pawn shop…according to the property tax records they're all paid up and there's no reason it should be closed, but the payments also came directly from a bank account rather than someone sending in checks, so who knows. Do you know how to use a gun?"

"I am familiar with their basic design."

"Okay, I'm going to assume that means you've never actually touched one in your life. Afterlife. Whatever it is angels have. Either way, I'm not giving you a gun. Here." He passed Castiel a matched pair of knives. "Put those somewhere out of sight, and let's go see if any of the stores in the same building as the pawn shop are open. Maybe we can get in through a back door."

* * * * *

"This one's locked too," Dean observed, releasing the handle he held with a sigh. "Then again, it is a freaking _clogging_ studio, so…. What about yours?"

"The same," Castiel agreed. There were three other businesses that shared a building with the pawn shop; a small—locked—Laundromat with its entrance on the same street, and the clogging studio Dean was trying to get into and some sort of health food store facing the hospital parking lot. Castiel squinted, trying to make out the layout of the interior through the front window of the health food store, but aside from a sign labeled 'organic fruit' with several empty baskets in front of it, he could see nothing.

"I don't know about you, but I'm thinking we really need to get in there," Dean said, moving to stand by Castiel.

"We could break through the window." Castiel tapped the glass lightly with one finger. Smashing the window was much less efficient than simply appearing inside would be, but he wasn't capable of that particular maneuver at the moment.

"Let's save that for the last resort, all right?" Dean said, indicating the other people on the street with them. "Going around smashing windows tends to bring the police. I was thinking more like taking a crowbar to that door down the alley. The lock looked pretty well rusted, and if we pull it shut behind us, the break in will be a little less noticeable." He gave the door handle a hard shake—which did nothing—and then put his back against the door and stared out at the street. "Too many people to do it now, though. Maybe tonight."

"The disappearances have all occurred at night."

"Yeah, I noticed, but I'm not sure if we've got another option. Anyway, that door should open onto either the pawn shop or the clogging studio, and I'm guessing there are probably doors connecting all the stores inside. Or there could be another side door on this end of the building for the Laundromat and this place; I don't know."

Castiel went to look around the corner, down another narrow alley, and discovered that Dean was correct about a second door. "There is, although it looks as rusted as the other."

"Well, we can pick one to start with. I think the pawn sh—"

Castiel heard a light thump and turned back to see why Dean had cut himself off mid-sentence, only to find a rather disturbing lack of Dean.

* * * * *

_Quick note: The Jimmy in this chapter wasn't actually intended to be the man hosting Castiel—when it was written he hadn't even been named onscreen yet. But you can either take it as she recognized his host or just thinks he stole the jacket, depending on your preference._


	22. Just making sure

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

* * * * *

"Dean?" Castiel called, ignoring the strange looks passersby were giving him. Dean obviously was no longer on the street, but when Castiel tugged on the handle of the door to the shop, it was still locked. "Dean!" Although it was _possible_ that one of his siblings had taken the mortal somewhere, it was unlikely in the extreme, and he couldn't think of any other—

"Cas? Where the hell is Dean?" Sam demanded, suddenly beside Castiel.

"I do not know." That was why he was calling for him.

"What do you mean you don't _know_? You were right here with him!"

"I am aware of that!" Castiel returned, his own voice rising in response to Sam's accusing tone. "However, he is no longer here." He frowned. "How did _you_ get here?"

"I was up talking to Maria's mother—or she was talking, anyway—and one minute I was looking out the window and saw you and Dean standing here, and then I turned back to her, and all of a sudden she yells 'it's the red men!'. When I looked again, Dean was missing. What happened?"

"I do not know," Castiel repeated, turned to indicate the alley a few yards behind him. "He disappeared while I was looking for a second side entrance. Whatever happened, it was fast enough to cut him off mid-sentence."

Sam took several steps back, towards the street, scanning the sidewalk in both directions, and then clenched his jaw and returned his attention to Castiel. "Where _exactly_ was he standing the last time you saw him?"

Sam's tone was decidedly controlled, and Castiel decided that the best response was to answer as simply as possible. "He was standing in front of the door."

Sam moved in front of the door, rattling the handle and peering inside, before looking down at the pavement and stamping several times. Whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to find it, and he returned his attention to Castiel. "Was he looking at anything in particular?"

"I don't believe so. He was looking out at the street."

"He was—damn, Dean what were you _thinking_?"

"Dean is not here." Hence his, and Castiel rather suspected Sam's, agitation.

"Yeah, I noticed," Sam snapped and then shook his head. "I…sorry. It's just never a good idea to put your back to a door, even a locked door, and he knows that. Hell, he's the one that taught _me_ that." His eyes widened suddenly and then pulled out his phone, tapping several buttons before putting it to his ear. "Come on, Dean, pick up. Pick _up_." But his expression fell after several moments of silence, and after a minute he sighed and put it away. "Damn."

"What do we do?"

"Get in there." He gestured at the shop. "It's the only place he could be. Unless you guys found something else while you were looking around?"

"All of the shops in this building are closed. Dean suggested that we break in tonight, through the alley door."

"Or we could go in right now." Sam planted on hand on the door and pressed while shaking the handle, and when the door still didn't budge set his shoulder against it and shoved harder.

"Father? Can I help you with something?" Castiel turned to find a uniformed man with a gun on his belt standing behind him frowning uncertainly at Sam.

Sam turned as well, staring for a moment, and then, "Uh…yes, Officer. I think my brother went in here, but no one is answering the door. Is there anyway we can get in?"

"This place closed down a month or so ago," the man said with a shake of his head. "Some health department thing, I think; I don't really know. Honestly, I don't even know where you'd find the owner or anyone else with a key for that matter. Are you sure your brother isn't just running late?"

From the expression on his face, Castiel thought Sam was going to protest the man's obvious refusal to help them enter the building, but then he released the door handle and nodded slightly. "Yeah, you're…probably right. Come on, Cas, let's see if he's still at the Salvation Army."

Dean hadn't gone to the Salvation Army, of that he was sure, but Castiel followed Sam anyway as he headed down the far alley. Sam stopped in front of the rusted door, glaring at it for several minutes. "This is where Dean wanted to go in at?"

"Yes."

Sam looked up and down the alley, out at the two streets and then muttered a few curses under his breath. "He was right about going in at night; there are just too many people around right now. And the next policeman who stops by might not be as polite as that last one was. But I don't like this—we still don't know what we're up against, and now he's in there _with_ them. Was he even armed?"

"He had a gun and a knife."

"Well, that's something." Sam ran a hand through his hair. "He probably has salt on him too, so if it is a ghost that'll give him some protection. _Shit_."

The last expletive didn't seem to belong with the rest of Sam's observations, but when he turned to stalk back down the alley, Castiel followed. "Where are we going?"

"The car. We'll go over everything we know one last time—_that_ shouldn't take long—and then load up on weapons." He paused. "You probably don't know how to use a gun, do you? I mean, an angel with a sword, that I can believe, but an angel with a semi-automatic just doesn't sound right."

"Dean gave me these." He opened his jacket to reveal the two knives tucked into his belt.

"Huh. That'll work, I guess. Or maybe you could take a sawed-off. They're pretty easy to use." They reached the car, and Sam looked over at Castiel. "Do you have the keys?"

"I gave them to Dean."

"Damn. We've got a spare back in the motel room, or I could just pick the lock and hotwire it—although Dean will have a fit when he finds out—but…." He looked back at the building, clearly unwilling to let it get out of sight. "Guess there's no reason we can't just wait here; all the supplies we need are in the trunk anyway. What exactly did you and Dean find while you were looking around?"

* * * * *

"Ready?" The sun had only recently set, but Sam had judged the shadows to be more than sufficient to hide their activities, and the two of them now stood in front of the door that Dean had originally selected to open.

Castiel wondered idly what Sam would do if he wasn't and then dipped his head. "Yes."

Sam nodded as well. "Just remember, shoot anything that comes out at us, but try not to shoot me. I'd live—I got Dean in the chest with rock salt once and he was mostly just bruised up afterwards—but I have it on good authority that it hurts like a bitch."

Castiel wasn't entirely certain how much a female dog hurt, but he decided that it wasn't overly important. He brought the shotgun to his shoulder as Sam had showed him.

"Oh, uh, don't shoot Dean either."

"I would not."

"Just making sure." Sam wedged the crowbar into the lock and broke it with a sharp jerk.


	23. An armed chimpanzee

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

_Author's note--For those who asked, Castiel will have his powers back by the end of this fic (it takes place between _Wishful Thinking_ and _I Know What You Did Last Summer_, so he has to get them back), but that won't happen for another few chapters.  
_

* * * * *

Sam let the door lock fell to the pavement, and after another look back at Castiel pulled the door open with a tug.

Castiel's finger touched the trigger, but when nothing jumped out at them, he relaxed slightly.

Sam shifted in front of the opening, a flashlight in one hand and a smaller gun in the other—a gun with silver, brass, and lead bullets, which, according to Sam, would 'play hell' with a variety of supernatural creatures—but the door only opened on a narrow hallway, and there wasn't much to see. "Stick close," Sam muttered, stepping inside and motioning for Castiel to follow. "And I told you before, don't point that thing at me." He shoved the muzzle of the gun he'd given Castiel upwards and then reached past him to shut the alley door, leaving them with only the light of his flashlight. Technically Castiel carried a flashlight as well, but it was currently tucked in one of the pockets of his coat. Despite the fact that Sam seemed to be able to handle the shotgun quite easily with only one hand, Castiel had no illusions about his own ability to do the same.

The narrow hallway split almost immediately, and they took the left hand turn in the direction of the pawn shop. Given that an actual person had been seen in there, as well as its strong potential for haunted objects, both Sam and Castiel thought it was the best place to start, although Castiel had had a strong desire—one he suspected Sam shared—to instead go in the direction of the health food shop. The sooner they found Dean the better, as far as Castiel was concerned.

Something scratched against the floor behind him, and he whirled automatically, shifting the gun to point in the direction they'd come.

Sam must have heard him turn, because suddenly the light was shining over his shoulder and down the long, dark hallway. The long, dark, empty hallway. "Did you hear something?" Sam asked.

"I thought so."

Sam swept the light around, checking the walls and ceiling of the hallway, and then swept it across the floor as well. Something jumped up from the floor towards Castiel as the light hit it—it was moving too fast for him to get a sense of anything but a furry body and a vast number of sharp teeth—and his finger tightened on the trigger reflexively. Judging by the rain of plaster from above, he'd missed the creature entirely, but Sam had fired at the same time and the small creature with the large teeth crashed to the floor at Castiel's feet.

"What the hell?" Sam asked, pulling Castiel back and stepping around him, prodding the creature with his toe before kicking a sharp metal pike, sized to fit the creature, away carefully. "An armed _chimpanzee_?"

Castiel considered the creature's stocky body and overly long arms and legs for a moment. "That is not a chimpanzee."

"Well, what is it then?" Sam asked, leaning down to pick up the pike in the same hand as the flashlight and keeping his gun pointed steadily at the creature with the other.

"A redcap." He considered the creature's attire for a moment and then nodded slightly. "They are a particularly predatory form of goblin that prey upon the unsuspecting and can take the guise of elderly humans. They draw strength from the blood of their victims."

"Which they soak their caps in, hence redcap," Sam finished. "I heard a story about them, once, but I'm pretty sure it said that they lived in castles in Scotland, or something like that. What's one doing in a pawn shop in Detroit?"

Castiel had no answer for that, nor was it his most immediate concern. "You are aware that the speed and strength of a redcap far exceeds that of a human? And that there is very rarely just _one_?"

"Well, I am now." Sam tucked the knife into his jacket and then prodded the creature with his boot. "Silver kills them?"

"As I believe they bridge the natural and supernatural worlds, I would say that any bullet would. Fire certainly does."

More scratching sounds, louder this time, sounded from down the hall in the direction of the pawn shop, and Sam shook his head and frowned. "Well, that's semi-good news I guess. Although I'm not about to set a fire while we're in here; not to mention that we still haven't found Dean. I don't suppose you can tell me how many of them there usually are at one time?"

"I don't believe that there is a set number."

"Of course not." He checked the pocket where he'd put extra ammunition and then nodded sharply. "Well, we pretty much blew any hope of sneaking in with the shooting, so let's just go in hard and fast. Oh, but when you're firing, point the gun at the target and just _squeeze_ the trigger. If you jerk it, you're going to pull the muzzle up and fire over your target every time. And for the last time, _don't_ point it at me." He caught the muzzle of Castiel's gun and forced it upwards. "Leave it aimed up there until there's something in front of you that you want to shoot, all right?"

Castiel nodded.

"All right. Stay close." He turned back down the narrow hall and began walking again. "_Dean!_"

Castiel hadn't been prepared for Sam's shout, but it seemed reasonable to call for Dean if they were not attempting to get in quietly. "Dea—"

He was on his stomach on the ground before he was aware of it and the gun in his hand went off a second time before being ripped from his grasp as he was dragged backwards, away from Sam, at a rapid rate.

Sam had begun to blaspheme at approximately the same time Castiel's gun had discharged, but the light had swung in his direction at the same time as well, and the sharper sounds of Sam's gun firing had begun almost immediately afterward. The pace Castiel was being dragged at slowed suddenly, and he pulled out one of the knives in his belt, spinning it into an appropriate position and slicing towards whatever had a grip on his ankle. Fortunately his boots were thick enough that the grip on his ankle wasn't hurting him; unfortunately, that meant that he wasn't entirely certain where the creature was. He was—quite literally—flailing in the dark, and he wished the knife had a longer blade. Sam had been correct when he had surmised that angels were familiar with swords.

He grunted as the creature made a sharp turn, dragging him with it, and the back of his hand impacted the wall with enough force to go momentarily numb. The realization that he'd dropped the knife was followed immediately by the realization that he could no longer see Sam's flashlight bobbing along wildly behind him. "Sam!"

"Cas! _Castiel!_"

Sam's voice echoed from some distance back, and Castiel did his best to kick the creature with his free leg even as he fumbled for his second knife. His long coat was folded up underneath him, hampering his efforts, but he needed to stop the creature before he was dragged too far away from Sam. He wasn't at all sure the two of them would find each other again in the dark.

The knife came lose suddenly, and he fumbled with it it and nearly lost it before he was able to get a good grip on the handle. He stabbed down along his leg viciously, this time rewarded with a howl of pain. Something sharp and unpleasant sank into his wrist, but when he pulled his hand back, whatever it was lost its purchase against the manacle and he was able stab a second time.

The knife struck fur and flesh once again, but this time the creature managed to wrest it from his grip, and reacting purely on instinct he grabbed the thing and rolled, slamming it against the floor as hard as he could manage. He wasn't sure where his last knife had gone, and if it began to drag him again, he would have no means of escape. "_Sam!_"


	24. You're a person, right?

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

* * * * *

The creature struggled wildly, and it was all that Castiel could do to maintain his grip on the blood-soaked fur. Hopefully soaked with its own blood rather than from his gashed wrist, but he had no real way to judge.

He also had no idea where the creature's mouth was in relation to his grip, but he didn't have any doubts about what would happen if the thing was able to sink its teeth into him again. He slammed it against the ground a second time, and then several more after it went limp, before pausing. If these things were clever enough to feign an injury they didn't have, releasing the thing could cost the life of this shell—and likely him trapped within it—but he could hardly walk around carrying it at arms' length, either.

A flicker of light behind him caught his attention, and he turned. "Sam?"

"Cas!" The light moved towards him, bobbing somewhat awkwardly, only to pause with the beam focused on the creature he held in his arms. It was lying limply, a deep gash in its abdomen and what looked like a piece missing from its leg. "Is it dead?" Sam asked.

"I do not know."

"Throw it."

"What?"

"Throw it. That way." Sam gestured with the flashlight.

The thing was heavy, and Castiel wasn't able to throw it far, but it seemed that Sam's intention had been simply to get the thing away from him because as soon as it hit the ground, Sam shot it twice in the head.

"Dead now."

Castiel recoiled slightly as Sam came closer and he could feel the faintest taint of evil on him. Not strong—more like when he'd first found out about Castiel threatening to send Dean back to Hell than when he'd exorcised the demon back in that Arizona warehouse—but it was definitely there.

"Where do you think it was taking you?" Sam asked, drawing Castiel's attention back to the present.

He shook his head. "I don't know." Sam shifted his flashlight to the same hand as his gun, obviously in preparation to help Castiel up, and Castiel pushed himself to his feet quickly before the offer could be made. He ran his fingertips lightly over the cut on his wrist, but it didn't seem to be particularly deep, so he pulled the jacket sleeve tightly around it to stem the bleeding and then nodded down the hallway. "Perhaps we should continue. If all of the victims are being taken to the same location, we may find Dean." Sam nodded, and Castiel leaned down to retrieve the knife he'd lsot, now visible in the pool of light from the flashlight, before indicating the shotgun Sam had slung over his shoulder. "Do you want me to take that?"

"Uh, thanks, but why don't you just stick to your knives. Here's the other." He passed over the knife Castiel had dropped earlier and then stepped around him to lead the way down the tunnel. "If they grab you again, yell."

Castiel hesitated at following too closely—that taint of evil bothered him a great deal—but fortunately it faded after a few minutes and Sam once again felt no different than any other mortal. He wished, once again, that he knew more of what Azazel's plans had been for the children he'd corrupted.

Sam gait seemed to be slightly uneven, and he was moving slower now than he had been, but although Castiel heard scratching behind them several more times, none of the creatures attempted to come at them again. He wasn't entirely sure if that was because they were afraid of the weapons he and Sam carried or because he and Sam were already moving in the direction that the creatures wanted them to go. He also wasn't sure that he wanted to know.

"_Dean!_" Sam called after a few minutes of silence. "Dean, can you hear me? _Jo!_"

There was no response except for a momentary increase in the volume of the scratching sounds coming from behind them, but once again when they turned they could see nothing.

"That's getting _really_ irritating," Sam muttered, turning back around. "Dean!"

"Hello?" a man's voice called from somewhere in the distance. It was faint, but the words were recognizable enough. "Is someone there?"

"Can redcaps talk?" Sam asked quietly.

"I don't believe so."

"Hm." He raised his voice again. "Hello? Can you hear me? Where are you?"

"I'm in here!"

The voice definitely seemed to be coming from the direction in which they were headed, and Sam picked up the pace, swinging his flashlight quickly from side to side as they went. "Keep calling!"

The man's voice got stronger as they continued down the hall, and Sam paused when they reached a section of the hallway that had several doors leading off it. Castiel tapped lightly on one, bearing a faded blue sign with the silhouette of a woman on it, and then started to turn the handle.

"Wait," Sam ordered. "I'm betting we're between the four stores—or at least their storerooms. Who knows what could be waiting in there." He considered for a moment. "Well, actually that's probably just the ladies' room, but still."

"Hello?" the man's voice called. "Is someone out there?"

It was from the next door down, and Sam frowned for a minute before switching his smaller gun for the shotgun and passing the flashlight to Castiel. "Trade places with me, and open the door on three. Ready?"

Castiel shifted his stare from the floor to Sam. "On three what?"

"Huh?"

There was no three anywhere that Castiel could see, but before he could explain his confusion, Sam shook his head.

"Just open the door and point the flashlight that way when I say 'go'." Sam raised the shotgun to his shoulder, taking aim, and then nodded slightly. "Go."

Castiel pulled the door open quickly and shined the flashlight inside, aiming it at the approximate height of the creatures.

"Hello?" a man's voice, decidedly cautious, called from deeper inside. "Who's there?"

"Who are you?" Sam countered as Castiel shifted the flashlight in the direction the voice was coming from. He could make out the shape of a man, half-crouched behind a large crate, and after a minute the man stood.

"My name is Matthew Trader; I'm a priest at St. Virgil's."

"Is that the Father Matthew you met?" Sam asked Castiel quietly.

Castiel shifted the flashlight to the man's face and then nodded. "Yes."

Sam glanced behind him before lowering the shotgun to point at the floor and indicating for Castiel to step into the room. He followed Castiel in, pulling the door shut firmly behind them. "My name is Sam Winchester; this is my cousin Cas. I think you met him last night."

"Cas?"

"Castiel," Castiel corrected, ignoring Sam's sharp look.

"Castiel? What are you doing here?" Father Matthew asked. There was a pause, and then, very strained, "You're a _person_, right? You and your cousin? Not..not one of those…." He paused again. "I almost can't believe I'm asking this, but not one of those demon creatures, right?"

"Certainly not," Castiel returned sharply. "And they are not de—"

"Look, we're looking for my brother." Sam interrupted, moving towards the priest.

Castiel followed, setting the flashlight upright on the crate the priest had been crouched behind so they could all see each others' faces in the light that it cast. Well, in theory they could all see each other's faces; Sam was standing sideways with most of his attention focused on the door, presumably in case any more of the creatures came through. It seemed a wise precaution.

"His name is Dean," Sam continued, glancing back towards Father Matthew quickly. "Have you seen him? He's in his late twenties, about 6'1", short brown hair, wearing a leather jacket the last time I saw him. The redcaps took him this afternoon. "

"I haven't seen anyone since I got here. Not anyone…human…anyway. I was called to the hospital late last night, I guess it must have been, although I don't have a watch and it's hard to judge time in here, but before I even made it out of the parking lot something grabbed me and dragged me into this building. I thought it was some sort of mugging, at first, but then I saw one of them in the moonlight, and…." He shook his head. "_Redcaps_, you called them? Like in the old horror stories? That's…insane."

"You'd think so," Sam muttered. "Did they put you in here? In this room, I mean?"

"No, I—when I saw the one that grabbed me, I started to pray, and all of a sudden it just let me go. I tried to get out of the building, but it—or another one just like it—grabbed me again, and when that one let me go, I just ran into the first room I could find and locked the door behind me. Or tried, anyway; the lock doesn't seem to work. But now every time I open the door there's one of them out there, and I don't think they're going to let me leave."

"Started to pray…." Sam drummed his fingers on the top of the crate lightly. "What did you say? Was some kind of exorcism ritual?"

"An_ exorcism _ritual?" He stared at Sam. "Of course not. What kind of people are you?"

"Please, just—it might be important."

Father Matthew shook his head. "I was reciting the 23rd Psalm—the one that includes 'Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil.'"

"Damn." This time it was Sam who shook his head. "Well, I don't care whether those things want us in here, we need to find Dean. And I suggest you come with us; whatever they're keeping you in here for, it probably isn't anything good."

Father Matthew glanced towards the door and then nodded slightly. "Do you really think you can get past those things?"

"Past them or through them," Sam said with a shrug, indicating the shotgun. "Considering that they've been kidnapping people for nearly a month, we're going to have to get rid of all of them at some point anyway."


	25. He's carrying knives

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

* * * * *

Father Matthew looked dubiously at the shotgun Sam held out, and Sam sighed. "Would you please take _something?_"

"I'm sorry, but I would prefer not to."

"_He's_ carrying knives!" Sam jabbed a finger at Castiel.

Father Matthew frowned. "Unless he's been ordained, I'm afraid our circumstances are somewhat different."

Sam's mouth moved for a moment, but no sound came out. "Look, no offense to your beliefs, Father, but 'I come in peace' isn't going to mean a damn thing to these creatures. And given that you don't even know for sure why they let you go before…."

Father Matthew's expression didn't change, but he did retrieve a length of wood that had probably been broken off a crate at some point in the past. "Will this suffice?"

Since it was clear even to Castiel that he had no intention of taking one of the guns, and he'd already refused one of Castiel's knives, Sam gave in with a grudging nod. "Good enough, I guess. Here, take my flashlight too." He shook his head and then glanced at the door. "Let's do this."

Castiel indicated for the priest to precede him. Judging by Sam's quick frown he wasn't entirely thrilled with the arrangement, but as the one with the most destructive weapons he had to go first, and as the least protected Father Matthew should be in the slightly-less-dangerous center, so obviously that left Castiel to cover the rear.

"All right, Cas and Father Matthew, when I open the door, I need you to shine the lights at redcap-level. That's about two or three feet high. If they really don't want us getting out of here, there's probably going to be at least a couple."

Castiel dipped his head, gripping his flashlight in one hand and one of the long knives in the other. "I am ready."

"Me too."

"One, two, _three_."

Castiel didn't know what the point of counting had been, but he had the flashlight on target as Sam flung the door outwards. He saw the blur of brown at the same time that he heard Sam's weapon discharge, and then Sam fired a second time into the darkness before trading the shotgun for the smaller handheld weapon and stepping out into the hall cautiously.

Sam fired a shot into each of the creatures that had fallen, presumably assuring that they were dead, and then turned to continue down the hallway. "Stay close."

Father Matthew might not have been willing to take a gun or knife—not an unusual position for a priest—but he kept a tight grip on his plank of wood as the three of them began to move down the hall. Since Father Matthew was shining his light over Sam's shoulder, Castiel used his to sweep the hall behind him, but as before he could see nothing. Well, nothing moving at least. The bodies of three redcaps lay in bloody piles on the floor where Sam's gunshots had left them.

"_Dean!_" Sam called as they walked. "Can anyone hear me?!"

"There's another door." Father Matthew waved his flashlight at a shadowed frame not far down the hall, just before the hallway turned another corner. "It could be the back entrance to one of the stores."

"Or another store room." But Sam tucked his smaller gun into his waistband and hurriedly reloaded the shotgun before lifting it to his shoulder. "Guess we should check it out. Father Matthew, can you get the door?"

Castiel put his back to the two of them, facing down the hallway in the direction they'd come in case one of the creatures decided to attack again.

There was a creak as the door swung open, and then—

"Oh, my holy…. Are those…real?" Father Matthew's voice was faint.

"Yeah, I'd say so." Sam heaved a sigh. "_Shit._"

Castiel backed into the room after them, pulling the door shut behind him, before turning to see what the two of them were looking at. The majority of the room looked similar to the first they had been in—not overly large, with a few thick metal shelves stacked against walls and half-a-dozen packing crates scattered about—but there was an odd pile of rags in the center with bits of something solid and white scattered here and there.

"Welcome to the dining room, I guess. Or at least the trash bin."

The bits of white resolved themselves into pieces of bone, suddenly—at least one partial skull was visible—and Castiel realized that the rags had probably once been clothing. A lot of clothing, judging by the size of the pile. The fact that the bone fragments had been picked absolutely clean explained why they hadn't smelled the remains from out in the hall. The floor around the pile was stained slightly, but nowhere near enough to account for the amount of blood that the victims must have spilled.

Sam swallowed hard, reaching out to take the flashlight Father Matthew held. "Please, God, don't let him be…."

Castiel didn't think Sam realized that he'd spoken aloud as he moved towards the pile, probing it with the barrel of the shotgun. He was looking for Dean, or the remains of Dean, Castiel recognized, and he stepped forward to look as well. But he saw no sign of a leather jacket or any of the other clothes the elder Winchester had been wearing when he'd disappeared.

Sam backed away from the pile and turned towards the door, apparently coming to the same conclusion. "Dean! Dean, can you hear me?" He looked at the pile again. "_Dean!_"

"—_my!_"

He froze in place. "Did you hear that?"

"I did," Father Matthew said, and Castiel nodded.

"_Dean!_" Sam spun back to face them. "Can you tell where it was coming from?"

Before either of them could respond, something scratched the door lightly, and Sam tossed the flashlight back to Father Matthew and brought the gun to his shoulder.

"—_am_!"

That voice sounded different than the first had, decidedly higher-pitched, and Castiel frowned, kneeling. "I think it's coming from below. Or…." He gestured towards the door. It was difficult to say.

"Below—damn it, I wonder if this place has some kind of basement. For storage, maybe, or…. _Dean!_" Another scratch, this time followed by several light tapping sounds from out in the hall, and he turned again and regripped the shotgun.

"If there's a basement, there has to be a stairway down to meet the fire codes," Father Matthew said. "Or at least some sort of trap door." He scanned the floor with the flashlight—carefully avoiding looking directly at the pile of bones and cloth—but there didn't seem to be any hidden entrances.

"—eep _talking_," someone ordered, definitely from below floor level.

"We're here!" Father Matthew responded.

Sam glanced down as well, but most of his attention was on the door.

Something rustled directly under their feet a few minutes later, and then a female voice was heard much more clearly. "Sam?" Two thumps from somewhere close. "Sam, is that you?"

"Jo?" His grip on the shotgun loosened as he glanced down again. "What—is Dean with you? Is he okay? How do we get to you?"

"He's with Micah…cut up some. Where exactly are you?"

Sam stamped down twice, echoed a moment later by another pair of thumps, this time from almost immediately below him. He shoved the gun abruptly at Castiel, who nearly dropped his flashlight in his haste to accept it, and then knelt down and pulled a knife out of his boot.

Father Matthew seemed to understand what Sam was trying to do, kneeling as well and helping him to rip aside the dirtied layer of plastic-like material covering the floor. Underneath that was revealed to be rough wooden planks, and Sam shoved his knife into the slit between two of them and tried to pry one of the planks upwards. The wood wouldn't give way, though, and after a minute he drew the smaller gun. "Jo, move away from where we are, all right?"

"Okay, I'll—" She broke off, and they heard rustling. "What?" Her voice muted and off-center now, as though she'd moved away from them in the direction of the hallway.

"What what?" Sam asked.

"Not _you_." Before any of them could ask her to elaborate, she blasphemed abruptly. "Sam, make us a hole; we're going to have to come up to you. I can't get any leverage to do it from this direction."

"But we don't know how many—"

"We've been holed up in the root cellar under the organic shop—if I _ever_ have another potato in my life it's going to be too soon—and I thought we'd made ourselves too much trouble to be their dinner even if we haven't managed to escape, but it seems like they've gotten over it. According to Rachel there's a pack of them outside the door, and there's no way we can stop them from coming through." She was quiet for a minute, and then in a much lower voice that Castiel suspected that they weren't supposed to overhear, "It's got to be Dean; smelling all that blood must be driving them _crazy_."

Even in the low light from the flashlights, Sam seemed to grow paler at her statement. He glanced back at the door, where scratching noises were still getting steadily louder. "I'm not sure it's any safer here, but…." He shook his head sharply and pulled Father Matthew out of the way before firing several times at the floor. Wooden splinters went flying in all directions, but he ignored them and knelt down to continue ripping at the wood. "Cas, can you bar the door?"

There were no bars available, but after a moment he decided that shoving the largest crate in front of it would have to serve. If nothing else, it would slow the redcaps down.

"Give me one of your knives," Father Matthew said suddenly, and with a frown Castiel handed it over. He understood a moment later as the longer, heavier blade worked better for prying than Sam's smaller knife. It took several minutes, but they were finally able to break a few feet of board away. It wasn't much—perhaps six inches wide—but it gave them a little more space to work, and Castiel knelt and put the shotgun aside, drawing his second knife to help.


	26. There's no time

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed._

* * * * *

A second board tore away after a few more minutes of work, followed shortly by a third, and then there was a hand reaching up towards them. "Jo?"

"This is Rachel," Jo's voice identified from somewhere a bit further back. "Sam, the crawlspace isn't even two feet high. You're going to have to pull her through."

Something splintered in the hallway, and Sam winced. "Cas, grab the shotgun and cover the door. Jo, are you _sure_ we shouldn't come to you?"

"Sam, we're running _seriously_ short of time here. They've already broken through the trap door half a dozen times—two of those since Dean joined us—and we're running out of boards to patch it with. Not to mention that there's not much ammunition left."

There was the slightest edge of panic in her voice, and a moment later Castiel glanced back to see Sam and Father Matthew hauling a figure—presumably Rachel—up through the hole in the floor. It was impossible to tell her age or much of anything else about her because of the grime that clung to her, and from the smell it had been at least a week since she'd had the opportunity to bathe. She scrambled back away from the hole as soon as they released her, curling against the back wall with her arms wrapped around her knees.

"Andy's coming through next," Jo announced. "I'm going back to get Dean and Micah."

Castiel wondered why Dean and Micah weren't already waiting, but as he was opening his mouth to ask there was a loud 'bang' from the hallway and the gun in his hands discharged before he realized that his finger had tightened on the trigger.

"Be _careful!_" Sam snarled.

"Here, I'm here, get me _out_ of here!" a new voice—young, and most probably male—demanded frantically at the same time, and Sam cut off whatever else he'd been planning to say in favor of reaching down and hauling up a second figure. This was one smaller than the first, although equally filthy, and unlike her he began to chatter as soon as he was clear of the crawlspace. Mostly of it was nonsense, from what little Castiel could make out, although there was the occasional prayer to God, plea for escape, and a request to 'help us help us help us' that didn't seem to be directed at anyone in particular. Whether the boy recognized Father Matthew or just the robes the man was wearing, he latched onto the priest, and Sam pushed the two of them back towards the wall.

Castiel glanced back at the door, where the sounds of scratching still hadn't ceased, and decided that it was a good thing that both flashlights were focused on the hole in the floor and the pile of bones and cloth wasn't particularly visible.

"Jo!" Sam called, leaning down and sticking his head in the hole in the floor. "Jo? Where are you?" He reached back and grabbed a flashlight and then leaned down again. "_Dean!_"

No response, and when Sam pulled his head back out, it was obvious that he was debating whether to try and crawl down there himself.

Something else splintered in the hall.

"Thou shalt not kill!" the boy declared loudly. "Or steal! Or…I don't remember any more! I have to remember—I don't know, I—"

"_What_?" Sam interrupted sharply.

The boy shook his head rapidly and resuming his previous mindless chattering.

"What were you saying?" Father Matthew asked, much more quietly than Sam had.

"The things," Rachel answered after a moment, speaking for the first time. For all that she was obviously terrified, her voice was steadier than the boy's had been. "Jo said that Lore—I don't know who Lore is—says that the things can be killed with Bible verses. Except that I really don't think that's true, because we've been trying and it hasn't worked so far, and…." She shrugged and let her voice trail off.

"Sam? We've got a…problem."

"Jo?" Sam's attention returned to the crawlspace. "Why didn't you answer me?!"

"I was busy at the time!" she snapped back. "Look, the entrance to the crawlspace, it's too small for Micah to fit through. Dean _might_ be able to fit, but…."

"But _what_?" Sam's voice was hard.

"He got pretty beat up fighting free of the redcaps earlier. We had to pop one of his shoulders back into place, and his arm has some pretty deep cuts on it. Not to mention a twisted knee and a gnawed-on calf. He doesn't think he'll be able to pull himself along even if we can somehow manage to shove him through, and I'm not strong enough to drag him. Not without more room to maneuver, anyway. They've been trying to make the opening larger, but it's got a metal frame that's not budging."

"Move, I'm coming down."

"Sam, _don't_. There's nothing you'll be able to do, even if you can fit through the crawl space entrance. Which I kind of doubt." She fell silent for a minute. "We'll make our stand back in the root cellar; you get those people out and then you can come back for us."

"Damn it, Jo, have you heard a word I've said? The redcaps are coming through _here_ too! If he doesn't think he can make it on his own, get a damn rope and I'll pull him through—splitting our forces in two to face these things is not a good plan."

Castiel noticed that there was no mention made of what would happen to Micah, but the sound of splintering wood from just outside the door underscored Sam's comment, and the crate braced against the wall shook slightly.

"Number one, I don't _have_ a rope, and number two, there's no _time_." The edge of panic had returned to Jo's voice. "I heard you Sam, but I told you before—they already broke _through_ our door! It's just a matter of time before too many of them come through to stop."

Sam shook his head furiously. "Does Dean still have his gun?"

"Yeah."

"Here." He took a bundle out of his pocket and held it down through the hole.

"What…?"

"Spare ammunition. Just take it, I've got more. And the shotgun. And tell Dean that Cas says that fire should kill these things; maybe there's some way you can use that."

"Who the hell is Cas?"

"Just tell him!"

There was silence for a few minutes, and then, "All right."

"Wait, is there some kind of lore about redcaps and the Bible?" Sam asked quickly, before she could leave. "Something we can use?"

"No. There's _supposed_ to be, but…." She made a disgusted sound. "This whole mess stared when some idiot imported this hideous statue from his family estate in Scotland a couple months ago. Him and his entire family were promptly slaughtered, and Micah's brother saw the reports in the paper and figured out that there were redcaps bound to the damn thing. Micah and I traced the statue to the pawn shop here and came to kill them, which according to the _lore_—" from her tone she was nearly spitting the word—"should have just involved reading them a few pages of the Bible. Unfortunately lore appears to be seriously mistaken on that one. I don't think they _like_ hearing the Bible, but it's sure as hell not killing them." She fell silent again for a moment and faint popping sounds were suddenly audible. "_Shit._ I've got to go, Sam. Good hunting."

"You too," he said after a minute, staring at the hole in the ground. Another round of popping sounds echoed up through the floor, and he shook himself and shoved another crate over the hole, pulling several of the metal shelves down off the walls to rest on top of it. It was obvious how much it cost him—that was the only way they had to get to Dean, as well as Jo and Micah—but if the redcaps managed to get into the crawlspace, it was the only protection he could offer the survivors from an attack from two directions.

Castiel pulled his last knife free and held it out to Sam.

"What?"

He nodded to the three people huddled against the wall, unwilling to leave his post in front of the door. "For them."

Sam stared for a moment and then nodded slightly. Father Matthew still held the knife he'd been using to pry up boards, although he didn't seem aware of it, and Sam took the second knife from Castiel and retrieved his own smaller blade and went to offer them to the other two.

Rachel grabbed one quickly, although from the way she held it, it was unlikely that she'd ever used a knife to do anything but cut her food. And she didn't look like she planned to uncurl from her position against the wall anytime soon.

"We're going to get out of here, right?" the boy asked nervously.

Sam didn't answer, nodding towards the last knife he was holding out. "Take it."

The crate against the door shook again, and Castiel shook his head. It had only been temporary protection to start with, and it was getting more temporary by the moment. From the look on Sam's face as he came up beside Castiel and checked his gun, he knew it as well.

* * * * *

_Author's note: Being able to kill redcaps with Bible quotes is actually from folklore (one of the reasons that they weren't my first-choice monsters), but given that Death-by-Bible wouldn't have lead to the ending I wanted, I'm pretending that it's not a valid technique in the _Supernatural_ world. Although I'm sure I'm missing at least a few good one-liners involving Castiel correcting the boys' quote selections._


	27. Holy Mary

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. Almost done…._

* * * * *

Father Matthew began to pray in the background as the door wood splintered further and the crate shook again, but Castiel knew as well as anyone that the answer to prayer was sometimes—even often—'no.' They would have to defend themselves.

Sam had his gun in one hand and kept it trained on the door while he used the other to prop up the two flashlights on pieces of wood so they would have a clear view of whatever came through. "How long do you think we have?" he asked Castiel quietly.

"Not long. Five, perhaps ten minutes."

"Keep it down!" Sam hissed. "They don't need to know that."

Castiel frowned but lowered his own voice to a level similar to Sam's that would not be easily overheard by the three against the back wall. "I believe they will notice fairly soon." Certainly in the next five to ten minutes.

A spark of light was reflected back at them suddenly, from a crack in the door, and Sam's gun sounded before Castiel could react. The redcap whose eye had been pressed against the crack flew backwards with an inhuman shriek.

The boy shrieked as well, and Sam turned to look back at him. "Just—try to stay calm, would you?"

"Calm. Right." That was Rachel, her own voice none too steady. "With a bunch of…things…out there that want to…my God, they want to _eat_ us, don't they?!"

"Yes," Castiel agreed. "Although redcaps also soak their caps with the bloo—"

"Cas, _shut up_," Sam ordered in a growl before turning back to the three of them. "Look, all of you, we're not going to just let them kill us. My brother and I, we've dealt with _way_ worse things than a bunch of rampaging chimpanzees. You just have to be willing to fight."

"Yeah, well your brother is that Dean guy, right?" the boy asked. "In case you missed it, he's not here. He's back in that stupid cellar. He's probably already been _eaten_ by now!"

"You don't know Dean." Sam fired through the hole in the door again, and another redcap shrieked and died.

"So we're all just going to do our very best Highlander impressions, and those things are going to curl up and die?" His voice had gone up sharply in pitch again at the end of the question, ending with a moment of somewhat hysterical laughter, and a few glints of light reflected off his knife as he waved it around haphazardly.

"At least it's _something_," Rachel snapped, and the boy fell silent again.

"Cas, how well do you know the Bible?" Sam asked suddenly.

"Quite well." He had experienced some of the later events chronicled firsthand and certainly knew of the rest.

"Well, start at the beginning and talk fast. Maybe the lore about the Bible quotes was correct and Jo and Micah just didn't use the right one."

He shook his head as Sam fired a third time. "I'm sorry; I believe that I misunderstood your question. I know the _events_, not the actual words set down by men." Particularly not when there were hundreds if not thousands of different translations and interpretations in nearly as many languages.

"Damn. Hey, Father Matthew, can you give us a hand here?"

"I—of course." Despite the quiet prayers he'd been uttering, he'd clearly been following the conversation as well, because after a deep breath he began to speak. "In the beginning, G—"

Sam turned back to the door and fired again, but this time when a redcap flew backwards a chunk of wood from the door was torn off with it, and in the light from the flashlight Castiel could now see a large portion of the head of another redcap. At least until Sam shot it. And then the next one that tried to take its place.

It was Castiel's turn to fire as Sam was hurriedly reloading; unfortunately his aim wasn't as good as Sam's and while the blast of rock salt did knock another redcap away from the hole, a good portion of it also embedded itself in the wood and weakened it further.

"—and the evening and the morning were the fourth day," Father Matthew continued in the background.

Castiel noted that the hissing from the creatures in the hallway had increased in volume slightly, but whether it was because they were disturbed by what they were hearing or because they were becoming excited being so close to their prey he had no way to tell. They clearly weren't _dying_ from what they were hearing, so it probably didn't matter a great deal. He fired again, knocking a second creature away from the hole, and then he was forced to pause and reload.

"—and fill the seas in the waters—the _waters_ in the _seas_—" Father Matthew's voice shook slightly as another piece of wood was torn away, this time by a redcap smart enough not to put its head in view of the hole.

Sam shot another that wasn't quite as intelligent and then glanced over at Castiel, back at the door as the wood around the hole splintered further, and then at Castiel again. "Cas, if we can get even one of those manacles off, can you deal with the other two?" he asked quietly, again speaking too low for the others to hear. "And maybe get rid of those things out there?"

Castiel stared at him. "Yes." He would be able to do both fairly simply, as it happened, but—

"And you said the demon with the knife fused them on you with his powers, right?" Sam pressed, doing something to his gun before tucking it into his waistband.

"Yes," he repeated. But their focus for the past several days had been on finding Jo and Micah rather than studying the manacles; why Sam would bother asking about removing them _now,_ when they hadn't even attempted any more research, he didn't under—

He didn't even have time to finish his thought as Sam grabbed him and slammed him up against the side wall, knocking the shotgun away and pinning him in place. The action was accompanied by a wave of evil Castiel was able to feel even with dampened senses, and he fought against both Sam's grip and his own shock. Of all the things he might have expected from the demon-touched mortal, an attack was not something that he had seriously considered. Not recently, at least.

Sam barely seemed to notice his struggles; he had the advantage of height, weight, and apparently strength against Castiel's shell and was giving no leverage. He wrapped one hand around the manacle on Castiel's right wrist, and the feel of evil strengthened enough to make Castiel gag. He didn't know what Sam thought he was doing, but whatever it was, he wanted it stopped. _Immediately_.

Apparently the others in the room had been as shocked by Sam's attack as he had because although he could no longer hear Father Matthew's recitation in the background, there was no sign of any of them coming to help him.

A sudden '_crack_,' felt as much as heard, distracted him for a fraction of a second, and then the metal band on his wrist fell away as his power returned to him in a dizzying rush. His senses were free as well, though, and any relief he felt at hearing his siblings again was dwarfed by the feel of an evil so close and so _foul_…. He flung Sam away from him with a sharp gesture, and the boy hit the far wall and crashed to the ground still engulfed in that tide of evil.

"_Damned!_" Castiel snarled, almost smothered by the feel of it. He wanted nothing more than to leave this shell; leave the feeling of defilement; leave _everything_. "Demon-spawn, tainted and forever _damned_!" He ripped off the other two manacles without a thought, skin still burning from that awful touch.

"_Stop them_," Sam snarled back, ignoring the blood that ran from his nose.

Afterwards, Castiel wasn't entirely sure what he would have done if the door hadn't finally given way and let a swarm of redcaps into the room. They scrambled over the crate with their arms extended and teeth bared, attention focused on him. They might not have recognized his nature before, but now they knew _exactly_ what he was, and he was forced to turn his attention from Sam to deal with them.

His power came to him at a thought, a feeling so different than anything he had known since he had been bound in that old warehouse that he nearly lost himself in it and forgot what he had called it for. Still, it didn't take more than a few moments to destroy the things, and at the collective gasp from the small group of survivors, he realized that he'd accidentally loosed enough power to reveal the shadow of his wings on the wall. He clamped down reflexively. It would serve no purpose to burn _them_.

"Holy Mary, mother of God," Father Matthew breathed, staring at him with wide eyes.

"No. Castiel."

The crack of Sam's gun redirected his attention to the doorway as another redcap was thrown backwards out of the room, but Castiel didn't spare Sam a glance. He stepped over the remains of the bodies in front of him and pushed aside the crate so he could get into the hall. Dean, Jo, and Micah—if they still lived—would need help.


	28. Unique qualifications

_Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. And yes, I do read reviews, but generally not until immediately before I post the next chapter… I spend about 10 hours a day in front of a computer for work, and when I get home I prefer to do other things. I'm not even on a computer when I do most of my _writing_; I've got a stack of notebooks that live in a closet and a nifty pen that downloads into a word processor. _

* * * * *

Castiel glanced up and down the hallway, the lack of light mattering nothing to him now. More creatures awaited him in both directions, apparently wary enough after the deaths of the ones who'd entered the room to be unwilling to risk an immediate attack. Not that it would make any difference. He glanced back long enough to confirm that none of the survivors were in a position to see him before calling his power and flaring his wings. Although it was far too cramped in the hall to extend them, the creatures began to burn almost instantly.

With the immediate threat dealt with, he reached for Dean and found that he wasn't all that far away. Still alive. He kept his wings flared as he walked down the hall and around the corner, and redcaps burned as they caught sight of him. He was fairly certain that at least one group tried to attack him from behind, but since they died well before they ever reached him, he didn't bother to pay them any attention.

He pulled his power back as he reached the room Dean was held in—or, more accurately, the room above the room Dean was held in—but even so a roar of sound greeted him as he dropped through a splintered square hole in the floor. He blinked in surprise as his mortal shell took several direct impacts from the small gun Dean carried as well as a similar gun that Jo held. The other male hunter—Micah, presumably—had a piece of wood that he was brandishing like a club, one end of it wrapped in burning cloth.

"Ca—don't shoot!" Dean yelled, shifting his gun to point at the ground.

"You already shot," he pointed out.

"Are you okay?" Dean demanded, ignoring Castiel's statement as he pushed himself awkwardly to his feet and limped forward. One of his arms was bound to his chest, the bandages and his sleeve were coated with dried blood, and there was a great deal of blood on the bandages wound from his knee downward on the opposite leg as well. "Warn a guy next time, would you?!" He glanced around Castiel. "And what happened to the redcaps? They were just about to send another wave through."

Castiel glanced down and saw the remains of at least two dozen redcaps, most of them freshly killed, scattered around the room. Some had clearly died of bullet wounds, but others had just as clearly gotten close enough to the hunters to fall victim to Micah's improvised weapon. "I am uninjured, and they have been destroyed. I have my…mojo…back, as you would say." He held up his arms, showing wrists unencumbered by manacles.

"What? _How?_"

"Sam…." Castiel trailed off, uncertain what to say. Sam's psychic abilities had been strong enough to banish the demon who'd put the manacles on him; apparently they'd also been strong enough to destroy the binding on one of the manacles as well. Which didn't change—

"Sammy?" Dean interrupted, and then frowned. "Where is he?" He limped past Castiel and looked up through the trap door. "Is he okay?"

"He is alive. He's with the survivors." Castiel gestured in the direction of the room he'd just come from. He would not—could not, in truth—give Dean any more information about Sam's state at the moment, nor did he have any desire to reenter the room the younger Winchester was in. Part of him recoiled again inside his mortal shell, remembering that overwhelming feeling of evil.

"You _left_ them there? What if there are more redcaps?" Dean demanded.

"I believe that I have dealt with them all." And it wasn't as though Sam was unarmed; to the contrary he was becoming rather _too_ well armed.

Micah, stepped around the two of them, still holding his weapon as he peered upwards. "Yeah, that's nice, but I think we should sweep the building. There could be a few in hiding…all it would take is a pair and this whole thing would start again."

Castiel reached out with his senses almost absently and realized that he was correct. "You should all go. I will deal with them." It was liberating to have full access to his own abilities again, and although he had no orders to destroy the rest of the redcaps, he had no orders against it, either.

"By yourself?" Jo asked. "What did you use to kill the others, anyway? What mojo?" She frowned. "And how the hell are you not bleeding? Dean and I both shot at you, and I know _I_ didn't miss."

Hell had nothing to do with it, but Dean cut in with "bullet-proof vest" before Castiel could respond.

"Trust me, Cas has some…unique qualifications," Dean continued. "Let's just do like he says and get Sam and those people and get out of here." Neither of the other two hunters looked entirely convinced, and he heaved a sigh. "Look, we've got _maybe_ a dozen bullets left between us. Let's let him do this, and we can leave, rearm, and then come back tomorrow and double check if you want. All right?"

That suggestion seemed acceptable, and the three of them climbed out of the root cellar. Castiel and Micah had to assist Dean, since he could only use one arm, but despite the amount of blood on his bandages, he looked as though he hadn't suffered any permanent injury.

With the hunters and surviving three abduction victims making their way out of the building, Castiel turned his attention to the few remaining redcaps. It didn't take long to destroy the lot…being able to stretch out his senses and simply _find_ them helped a great deal. He didn't think that that was an ability that he would take for granted again. For good measure he shattered the statue in the pawn shop window as well, and then upon consideration every other item in the shop that even could be considered a statue, just to be certain that whichever had once bound the creatures was reduced to rubble. It was highly unlikely that whoever owned the store was still alive to care.

He shifted outside just in time to see Father Matthew, Rachel, and the boy being put into large square vehicles and a small squad of uniformed men preparing to force their way into the building. Rather too late to be of any use, but perhaps that was just as well. The boy was chattering again…something about crazy men and cults, from what Castiel could make out. A tolerably reasonable explanation, under the circumstances, but then mortals did tend to be good at rationalizing things that they didn't fully understand.

None of the three saw him, and he shifted quietly to a location where he could observe Dean. The Winchesters were several alleys away, with Jo and Micah—whom Castiel now noticed were as dirty as Rachel and the boy had been—keeping pace beside them. The arm that wasn't bound to Dean's chest was slung over Sam's shoulder, and his limp was clearly the limiting factor in their speed.

"Mom—" Jo heaved a sigh and lowered her hand from her ear long enough to reveal a small phone tucked in her palm. She glared at the phone for a moment and then brought it back to her ear. "Mom, I'm fine, re—_Mom!_" She threw up her free hand and took a few steps away from the other hunters.

"With those blood-soaked caps there was probably enough EMF in the area to take out a damn _tower_ at close range, never mind blocking our cell phones," Dean said. "Especially when we were down in that root cellar and they were right above us."

Sam nodded. "Bet you're right. I didn't even think of that."

"I'm still not sure we should let the police go in there alone, before we have time to sweep it," Micah said, apparently continuing an earlier argument. "No matter what your friend thinks he can do."

"Oh, right, and how are you going to stop them?" Dean asked. "Tell them that the building has been taken over by a bunch of man-eating goblins? Good luck with that." He shook his head. "Besides, they may not know shit about the supernatural, but they do have guns. Even if any _are_ redcaps still alive in there—and I doubt it—I'm betting that anything that jumps out at them with teeth bared is going to get killed pretty quick."

"Good point."

Jo's voice rose suddenly, and her face turned an interesting shade of red. "Mom, would you just—"

Micah looked over at her and shook his head. "I've only met Ellen once, but she's pretty much going to kill me after this, isn't she?"

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. "I don't know about you, but I really want a shower and some food," Sam said in a cheerful voice that was clearly forced. "How about we hit the motel and get a couple pizzas delivered?"

"Sounds good, I guess." Micah still looked unhappy, but apparently he was willing to be distracted. "But what about your friend Cas? If he's sweeping the building by himself, maybe we should wait for him. You know, just in case." His frown deepened. "Man, I hope the _police_ don't find him."

"Don't worry, Cas can take care of himself. He'll find us again when he wants to." Dean snorted. "Somehow he always does."

Sam's face had darkened at Castiel's name, and Castiel decided that he had put off making his report of the saving of the seal in the Arizona warehouse and his own experiences since as long as he should. He would speak to Dean again later, when Dean was alone.


	29. A, knock

_It's finally done! Well, at least the main story is…there are a couple little post-episode snippets that I wrote while this was in progress that might end up being included in an epilogue chapter, assuming I can find them and depending how well they fit. But just in case that doesn't happen, thanks to everyone who has read and especially those who have reviewed. It ended up being a little longer than I'd planned, but I hope you enjoyed it. _

* * * * *

Castiel fanned his wings, announcing his presence in the small motel room several hundred miles from where he'd last seen the Winchesters, and Dean turned to greet him with a glare.

"A, _knock_. B, what the hell did you say to him?"

Castiel stared. It had been nearly a week since his powers had been returned…not only had he had his own report about the incident in the Arizona warehouse to relate, there had been recent events to be made aware of and a host of other duties he had to fulfill. This was the first chance he had had to make sure that Dean had made it through the encounter intact.

"What did you say to _Sam_," Dean finally elaborated, picking at the sling on his arm. "He's been messed up since that whole mess with the redcaps. He won't tell me what his problem is, but I've got this really funny feeling that it's your fault."

Castiel considered his last words to Sam and made no response.

Dean's accusing glare didn't waver. "And I think you traumatized that poor priest too. Kept muttering 'Castiel' and something about Thursdays until the ambulance came."

"I revealed more than I intended when the manacles were first removed," he admitted, and then gestured at the sling. "You will recover?"

"Oh, I'm fine." Dean waved his free arm. "Sammy's just being obnoxious, fussing at me every time I take this thing off. Just because some doctor said I should be wearing it for at least two weeks. What about you?"

He frowned. Several of his siblings—including his immediate superiors—had expressed considerable doubt about his ability to maintain detachment from his charge after his experience, but thus far no action had been taken to reassign him to other duties. And while their doubt was…uncomfortable, it was no concern of Dean's. "I am well. Where is Sam? And your friends?"

"Jo and Micah left Detroit when we did, but they were headed for Minnesota. Something about a poltergeist, from what Jo said. And Sam…your guess is as good as mine." Dean snorted. "Hell, it's probably better; all I know is that he's been wandering off for an hour or two just about every day since we left Detroit. Once again, what did you say to him?" His glare was less accusing this time, but he obviously wanted to know.

"He used his psychic abilities to remove one of the manacles. I was…displeased." And his expression of that displeasure had been rather forceful.

"Great." Dean neither looked nor sounded particularly surprised, though.

"I will speak to him," Castiel decided, reaching for Sam and shifting to his location even as Dean opened his mouth again.

The church Castiel found himself in was deserted except for a lone figure seated in the front pew, staring up at the altar, and for a moment, Castiel marveled at the absolute feeling of _normality_ about Sam. The evil that he had felt before simply wasn't there. Except that it _was_ there, lurking just below the surface, and he wasn't at all certain that it was entirely under Sam's control. True that Sam had been able to deliberately invoke his powers to exorcise the demon as well as when he removed the manacle, but there had also been the incident when he had become angry about Castiel's threat towards Dean and then again when they'd first encountered the redcaps. In neither of those instances had there been reason for him to use his abilities, and while at the time Castiel had been focused on the evil itself, he'd since had time to consider what that involuntary access could mean. How much influence—conscious or not—was the demon blood exerting?

He frowned and forced his thoughts to turn to other matters, at least for the time being. Sam as well as Dean had helped him when he had been bound, and he should not have left things as he had. He fanned his wings to announce his presence.

Sam made no response, and after a minute Castiel moved to stand beside him. "May I join you? I would not interrupt your prayers."

"I'm not praying." Sam's voice was flat, and his eyes remained fixed on the altar. "Wouldn't mean much, any more."

"Prayers always have meaning."

He laughed, but it had a brittle sound. "You said it yourself. I'm damned. Guess it shouldn't have come as a surprise—when Uriel threatened to get rid of me, it didn't exactly sound like he was planning to send me to a land of sunshine."

"Uriel has…convictions," Castiel said after a moment, "but he had no right to say what he did." He knew that the two of them had spoken after the incident with Samhain, and while he personally was glad that the town had been spared, the loss of a seal had been a blow to all involved. He shook his head slightly and returned his attention to the current situation. "Our purpose is to carry out our father's will; he is the only one with the right to stand in judgment." Silence met his words, and after another few moments, he continued. "I should not have said what I did, either." At least not in the manner that he had. "I was…angry."

Sam snorted.

"I—_we_—do not," or should not, at least, "feel things as you do, but…what is inside you…it is _wrong_, Sam. What I am…." He shook his head. He didn't have words—he didn't think there _were_ words—to explain the way his very being reacted to that feeling of evil.

"It's demon blood. Pretty much wrong by definition."

"And yet you continue to use it."

"What other option is there?" Sam's voice suddenly had a hard, angry edge. "Should I have let those things kill us all? We couldn't have fought them off on our own, and you know it. Or maybe I should just have let you get sacrificed back in Arizona. I mean, what's one more seal?" He gave another bark of brittle laughter. "I knew it was a long shot, trying to use my powers on those things—and I knew damn well it would piss you and Dean off, which is why I hadn't suggested it before—but it was the only chance we _had_."

Castiel had no answer for him, but he could see another path far too easily. "And if, in winning the battle, you lose the war?"

It took a minute for Sam to answer his question, and when he did, his voice was much quieter. "I don't know, Cas. Believe me, I wish I did."

Sam turned to look at him, and for the first time Castiel realized precisely how _young_ this mortal was. He and Dean both…Castiel called them boys out of habit, and granted that mortals had an almost ridiculously short time on Earth—it was rare that one saw even a full century—but Dean and Sam had little more than half a century of experience between them. And the outcome of this war would depend upon them more than anyone.

Sam shook his head. "I can't promise I'm going to stop, Cas. Not if that's what it takes to kill Lilith and win this war. I'm sorry."

Castiel remained silent, and after a few minutes Sam stood and stepped around him. "I should go. Dean is probably getting worried."

He remained where he was, watching as Sam made his way to the front of the church and paused a moment to dip his fingers into the holy water.

Sam gave a quick half-smile before holding up the un-burned digits to show Castiel. "At least it hasn't got me yet."

It hadn't, Castiel agreed as the heavy door swung shut behind Sam. Not yet. He shook his head and turned back to face the altar. Dean was his responsibility, not Sam. That had been made clear. But…where Dean went, Sam was going to follow. He'd already made it plain that he would stand against even angels to protect his brother—however misguided that notion might be—so perhaps, if it did not conflict…. He shook his head. If it did not conflict, if he did not receive orders to the contrary from his superiors, if Sam managed to remain _himself_ despite that taint of evil, perhaps he could watch for both of them.


	30. Epilogue

_Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed. This is just an epilogue chapter…these are, with one (fairly obvious) exception, a couple of short-to-extremely-short snippets set after Children of Man would have taken place that I wrote while watching episodes and working on the original story. I've tried to indicate where in the season each falls. For the record, there are a couple spoilers._

_* * (Some time after the manacles were removed, no particular episode) * *_

Castiel shifted into the side office at St. Virgil's. Father Matthew was alone, digging around in the bottom drawer of a tall cabinet, and after a moment of consideration he fanned his wing's to get the priest's attention.

Father Matthew raised his head, swiveling in his chair to face Castiel, and then his jaw dropped slightly and the folder that he had pulled out of the cabinet fluttered to the floor, papers scattering around it. Castiel wondered idly if he should, at least in this instance, have heeded Dean's oft-repeated request that he knock.

Father Matthew continued to stare at him in silence, and after a few minutes Castiel frowned slightly. "Hello?"

"Oh, my holy God."

"No. _Castiel_." Surely this was not a difficult concept—even as stubborn as Dean had been about accepting _what_ he was, he'd never had any particular problem with his _name_.

"I wasn't—I didn't mean—" Father Matthew shook his head. "I just…I've never had an angel standing in my office before." He paused for a moment. "You _are_ an angel, aren't you? A real angel?"

"I am not aware of any other kind. You seem surprised." Surely a man of faith believed in angels.

"It's not…angels are supposed to show up on Earth for _important_ things…for the birth of Christ, for the Rapture…." His eyes widened slightly. "You aren't here for the Rapture, right?"

"Not yet."

"Then what _are_ you here for? Are you a guardian angel? Sam's?"

"No." That would be a rather bizarre turn of events. "It is…complicated." It was his turn to pause for a moment before continuing. "I simply wished to be certain that you had recovered from your encounter with the redcaps." And whatever trauma that Dean seemed to think that he had inflicted.

"Honestly?"

Castiel frowned, unsure why anyone would think that he wished to hear a lie, but Father Matthew continued before he could ask.

"It doesn't even seem _real_, most of the time. I mean, I know what happened, but…." He trailed off, shaking his head. "The police have been saying that some sort of cult took over the building, complete with kidnappings, ritual sacrifice, that sort of thing. I think Andy's starting to believe it, although Rachel has been coming to see me after church on Sundays."

Castiel remembered the boy's frantic chattering. "He is young. Perhaps it is for the best."

"Maybe." There was silence for a moment, and then, "Somehow you aren't quite what I think of, when I think of angels." Father Matthew smiled slightly. "Or maybe it's just the lack of trumpets and a booming voice."

"I have been informed that I should 'turn the volume down' while on Earth."

"I…see." He looked slightly nonplussed.

"Here." Castiel held out the coat that the priest had given him. "I have restored my own garments, but thank you for its use."

Father Matthew took it carefully, draping it over his arm and running his fingers lightly across the material. "You're most welcome." Silence drew out for another minute before he broke it again. "Did you ever get your questions answered? I mean, about…." He used his free hand to gesture upwards slightly.

Castiel opened his mouth and then shut it again. "I am pleased that you are well. And know that your faith is appreciated." He shifted away, before Father Matthew could respond.

_* * (Post 4.10/Hell's Angels) * *_

Anna's grace was returned. Of all the things that might have occurred when he and Uriel had been sent to destroy her, that was not an outcome that he had ever considered. That _anyone_ had ever considered, he suspected.

He shook his head, staring out at the mass of children playing in the grass, none of whom were paying him the least bit of attention. He remembered all-too-clearly the wave of shock that had rippled through the garrison when she had left them. It was not entirely unheard of for an angel to fall, but never would he have imagined _Anna_ to be one who chose….

He shook his head again. His orders for her destruction had been superseded by more pressing issues since her grace had been restored—there were still standing orders for her death should anyone encounter her, of course, but now that she knew what she was, what she could do, he very much doubted that those orders would be fulfilled. At least not in the near future. He was almost…glad…of that, although Uriel most certainly was not.

He frowned slightly. It seemed oddly coincidental that he and Uriel had arrived to collect Anna at almost exactly the same time that Alastair and his minions had. If he and Uriel had been few minutes sooner, Anna would have been destroyed and the Winchester brothers would have been left to face the demons on their own. If they had been a few minutes later, Alastair would have taken Anna away, and…. He shook his head. He didn't care to contemplate the losses that the garrison would have taken then. That they would have _had_ to take, just to stop the demons from using her.

One of the women watching the group of children caught his eye and glared, and he stood. Anna had not fallen to the demons. He had not been forced to destroy a sibling. He _had_ damaged any trust that might have been growing between himself and Dean—he had tried to tell Uriel that threatening Sam was not the best way to gain the human's cooperation, but Uriel had insisted and their superiors had agreed. And Dean had still acted to protect him when Alastair would have destroyed him so perhaps the damage was not as great as he feared.

Perhaps there was hope for Sam as well…he had made no attempt to use his hellsent powers on Alastair or any of his minions while Castiel and Uriel had been fighting the demons in the barn. Of course, that may have been due to the immediate angelic presence, but it could also be that he was finally heeding the warnings that he had been given.

The woman glaring finally took her eyes off him for a moment to speak to another woman, and he shifted away. Enough contemplation; there was work to be done.

_* * (Pre Dean and Cas' chat at the end of 4.16/On the Head of a Pin) * *_

Sam would stand against angels for Dean. At the time, when Sam had sworn that he would do whatever he had to to protect his brother, Castiel had found the idea absurd. Now….

He sank into the last remaining unoccupied chair and studied the two boys. Dean was still hooked up to all manner of machines and monitors; Castiel would gladly have waved his hand and healed the damage that Alastair had inflicted if he had been capable of doing so. Sam was slumped in a chair against the far wall, apparently having lost a battle with sleep. His forehead was resting against one of the myriad of machines attached to Dean, and his breathing was even.

A part of Castiel recoiled as he considered the younger boy, remembering the feel of evil that had once again surrounded him when he'd used his powers. He had been wrong about Sam heeding the warnings, and his strength was growing at a rate Castiel had never expected. He had pulled information from Alastair with almost contemptuous ease and then ripped the demon apart as though it had been child's play, and while the demon's demise hadn't precisely been regrettable, Castiel could not have done that. Uriel could not have done that. Even _Anna_, in all likelihood, couldn't have.

Castiel turned his mind firmly from thoughts of both Uriel and Anna. One was dead because of disobedience; one was under a sentence of death for falling. And while Anna might have protected him from Uriel, she still wouldn't tell him what to _do_ in this twisted new reality. He had never questioned his siblings' loyalty before, but now…now he didn't even know if he could trust the garrison. Anna said that he needed to think for himself, but…." He shook his head minutely.

Dean's eyelids fluttered, and Castiel reached out and nudged Sam further into sleep, glad that that much still worked on the demon-touched mortal. He wished to speak to Dean privately.

_* * (Post Anna's capture in 4.21/When the Levee Breaks) * *_

It was done. Sam was free to go to the demon. To go to Lilith. He had not…wished…to do it, but— Castiel shook his head sharply. His wishes, his desires, even his opinions, were irrelevant. It was not his place to question orders. That had been made clear, and he had seen what had happened to Anna, what would happen to all of those who disobeyed and were caught. It was not something that he could endure.

He shook his head again. He would not think of Anna, now. He would not think of Dean, or of Sam, or of what was coming. He had his orders.

But part of him, the part that his siblings could not see, couldn't help hoping that somehow—_somehow_—things would not turn out as he knew they must. Dean knew Sam better than anyone…maybe he could still find him before the Seal was broken. Maybe he could convince his brother not to do this.

_* * (Immediately post Cas sending Dean to Sam in 4.22/Lucifer Rising) * *_

He had disobeyed orders. He had told Dean—_freed_ Dean, temporarily banishing Zachariah much like Anna had once banished he and Uriel in the process—and then he had allowed…. He closed his eyes and forced himself to cease thinking about the number of blatantly disobedient acts that he had committed this day. It didn't matter, now; what was done was done. Perhaps he had done too much, perhaps he had not done enough—or not done it _soon enough_, as he so strongly feared—but he could not have done anything else.

The sense of _presence_ grew stronger, and the loose objects in the room began to rattle. An Archangel was near. He couldn't tell yet who it was, but whoever it was was orders of magnitude stronger than himself. He had not expected anything else.

He lifted his head and squared his shoulders, calling his power close and trying not to look at the quivering mortal beside him. Disobedient or not, he would stand by his actions. He would hope that he had accomplished enough. Whether he and Chuck survived or not was immaterial; Dean was the only one who had even a chance of stopping Sam. Or, if that failed, of stopping Lucifer himself.

The presence he'd sensed manifested, and he had no time to think anymore.


End file.
